


Cosmic Love

by orphan_account



Category: IT (1990), IT (2017)
Genre: 1990 Pennywise, 2017 Pennywise, Absent Parents, Alien Biology, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Parents, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkwardness, Babies, Bad Decisions, Bad Jokes, Bad Parenting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Body Worship, Breastfeeding, Breeding, Brutal Murder, Childbirth, Clown Babies, Clowns, Consent Issues, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Daddywise, Dirty Talk, Discussion of Abortion, Doggy Style, Dom/sub, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Consent, Eldritch, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fatherhood, Finger Sucking, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gentle Sex, Gore, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Impregnation, Jealousy, Large Breasts, Lazy Sex, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Instability, Monsters, Motherhood, My Funny Valentine Sequel, Oral Sex, Out of Character, POV Female Character, Painful Sex, Pampering, Parenthood, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pennywise is his own Warning, Pet Names, Plans For The Future, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Protectiveness, Revenge, Reverse Cowgirl, Single Parents, Smut, Threats of Violence, Threesome - F/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Weight Gain, Weird Biology, Weird Plot Shit, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-31 07:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After spending the best part of a week with your head in the toilet, and skipping a period, you finally pluck up the courage to take a pregnancy test.You know that you can't possibly be pregnant, not with an alien-clown-thing's baby, but the results of the test say otherwise.From this moment on, whatever you decide, your life will never be the same.Reader/1990!Pennywise.Reader/2017!Pennywise.Established relationships.'My Funny Valentine' series, 10th and final entry. Alternate ending/AU, for those who wanted a 'happier' conclusion to the series.





	1. The Test

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mualhani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mualhani/gifts), [Beastlybfs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beastlybfs/gifts), [DJSpidersGeorg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJSpidersGeorg/gifts), [nounouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nounouse/gifts), [LuckyRedBalloon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyRedBalloon/gifts), [hotrockcandy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotrockcandy/gifts), [peachslice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachslice/gifts), [PrincessMarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessMarth/gifts), [Harazukulove8891](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harazukulove8891/gifts), [BlindBeauty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindBeauty/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Torrential_Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torrential_Sunshine/gifts), [cuntoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/gifts), [Heartbreaker227](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heartbreaker227/gifts), [WaitingForMy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForMy/gifts).



> Last Author’s Note.
> 
> Hey, my lovely sewer dwellers. 
> 
> So, this is the last entry in my series of orphan_account clown smut. I will probably write more for this fandom, in the future, but life is crazy busy at the moment so this will be my final entry for now. 
> 
> I’ve really loved writing this stuff over the last month, and your beautiful comments and words of encouragement have really kept me going; honestly, you’re all amazing. 
> 
> I apologise for the delay with; I've had a hectic week and this one kinda turned into a saga, as you can see. I hope it lives up to expectations! Let me know what you think! {Pssst I'm happy to take requests for possible future stories, just leave 'em in the comments}. 
> 
> The series is now complete. For old and new readers, here they are, listed in the order in which they should be read;
> 
> 1\. Wicked Game: In which you meet 1990!Pennywise for the first time. June 1984.  
> 2\. Video Games: In which you and Daddy Penny get steamy during a heat wave. July 1984.  
> 3\. Tunnel of Love: In which you try to escape Derry, but Daddy Penny isn’t about to let you leave without a fight. August 1984.  
> 4\. My Funny Valentine: In which 1990!Penny introduces you to 2017!Pennywise. February 1985. Note: This entry is two parts, due to a technical cock-up. My bad.  
> 5\. Stuck in the Middle with You: In which the new clown tries to muscle in on Daddy Penny’s territory. March 1985.  
> 6\. Bad Romance: In which you make the mistake of going on a date with some random guy, and the two clowns punish you for it. April 1985.  
> 7\. Gods and Monsters: In which you're on your period and Daddy Penny takes full advantage of it, to satisfy his blood kink and desire for control over you. April 1985.  
> 8\. As the World Falls Down: In which you spend one final night with Daddy Penny, before the Losers’ Club arrive in Derry. April - June 1985.  
> 9\. Cosmic Love: In which you accidentally get knocked up by the clowns. May 1985 - June 1986. Note: This is a slight AU, written for anyone who wanted a ‘happier’ ending for Reader and the clowns. If this applies to you, disregard the previous entry as AU and read this one as ‘canon’ instead.  
> 10\. Carousel: In which the two clowns are a father and son duo, running a circus, and you marry into the family. August 1941 - May 1963. Note: This is completely AU, in regards to the rest of the series. The clowns are human, but they’re still assholes. 
> 
> At this point, I’d just like to thank you all for being so fabulous. This is one of the most welcoming and supportive fandoms I have ever written for, and that’s down to you guys. 
> 
> You’re all trash, but never change!
> 
> Orphan Trash Author, signing off, for now x
> 
> {Again, no set playlist for this, seeing as it is a multi-chapter entry, but I'm really loving Blue Moon Motel by Nicole Dollanganger. It was brought to my attention by floatingwithpennywise and I love it. Totally sums up the twisted Reader/Daddy dynamic in this series} x

_**1985** _

On a cold morning in late May, you open your eyes to find that you have spent yet another long night lying upon the tiled floor of your bathroom, with your head upon the toilet bowl and one arm draped over the cistern.

You stand up stiffly, holding your head, leaning against the wall for support as your knees tremble and buckle. Without warning, your stomach lurches wildly and you heave into the bowl, vomiting a stream of watery bile.

“Holy shit...” You stay over the bowl for a few minutes, until you’re certain that your insides have stopped roiling like a bag of snakes, and then you flush the toilet and move over to the sink, to splash cool water upon your face.

_That’s the fourth time this week._

_Ugh._

At first, you had thought you had caught a bug, but now you’re less certain. Against your will, your eyes stray to the bathroom cabinet. Sighing heavily, you open it and take out a large packet, still in the drug-store wrappings.

_Surely not._

“No fucking way.”

_So why did you buy it, then?_

You had bought the test yesterday, after work. You had even gone to the trouble of going a few miles out of town, just so you wouldn’t be spotted by anyone you know, or have to suffer through the probing questions of the staff at the local drug-store. Everyone knows everyone, here in Derry, and you can’t risk this getting out, not yet.

_Whoa, wait a minute._

_Back up._

_You haven’t even taken the test yet._

You were going to take it last night, before bed, but you had chickened out and hidden under the covers instead, nuzzling your face against Frank’s soft fur, for comfort.  

You tear into the packet now, gazing down at the delicately patterned box, and then you sit upon the toilet seat, reading the instructions with a bewildered expression. You open the box, glancing apprehensively inside at the kit. The damn thing looks like something out of your high-school science class, with test tubes and sample bottles, and you wonder if it would be easier if you just went to see a professional. Doc Baynes, perhaps. But that is out of the question; Baynes has been your family doctor since you were born, and you just know that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about something like this. If you went to him, your parents would know about it within the hour, whatever the result of his examination.

You don’t have the patience, or the emotional stability, to manoeuvre your way around this fucking chemistry set on your own, not right now. Eventually, with your nerves frayed and your hands shaking, you end up making a tearful phone-call to one of your more discrete girl-friends, begging her to come over. You know that she’s used one of these things before, after an incident with a malfunctioning condom, so hopefully she will be able to guide you through it.

Fortunately, she’s not at work, and she heads straight over, alarmed by your distress pleas. You’re still slumped on the toilet seat when she arrives, and you’re ashamed for her to see you like this, a dishevelled mess with red-rimmed eyes, but she brushes off your embarrassment like it’s nothing, taking you into her arms.

“So, who’s the father? Not that random guy who took you out on a date and ended up with amnesia, I hope?”

You pull a face, “No, not him. We didn’t sleep together.” Your friend raises an eyebrow, fixing you with a sceptical expression. You blush, dropping your gaze, “I don’t know, {gf/n}. I really don’t know.”

_It’s not entirely true, but you’re not outright lying either._

She smirks, “Oh, someone’s been a bad girl!”

“Look, let’s forget about the details for now, okay?” You let out a rattling sigh, turning your attentions to the box on the floor, between your bare feet, “I don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet.”

“Do you _want_ to be pregnant?”

You shrug, and then you shake your head, burying your face in your hands. Your friend immediately sobers, giving your knee a reassuring pat, and then she sets to work on the kit. She has it set up in no time, and then you follow the directions, allowing her to talk you through it.

It’s complicated and vaguely humiliating, but you don’t have a choice, and your friend is so good about the whole thing. You know that you have been a wreck by now, if she hadn’t been able to help you out.

“It can take an hour or more, so why don’t you go and get dressed, huh? Brush your hair, put some coffee on? It’s best to keep busy.” She smiles up at you, and then she grimaces, wafting a hand in front of her nose, in exaggerated disgust, “Oh yeah, and clean your teeth, {y/n}. You smell like puke.”

You roll your eyes, “Well, that’s because I’ve done nothing but throw up for the past four days.”

She purses her lips, looking pensive, “Yeah? Have you skipped a period, too?” Your horrified expression is answer enough. She quickly back-pedals, trying to soothe you, “Doesn’t mean anything, I guess. There’s a sickness bug going around, and your period might be late, that’s all. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Go on, go freshen up, {y/n}. I’ll keep an eye on things up here.”

Trying to ignore the erratic rhythm of your heart, you head downstairs, to feed Frank and make some coffee. The minutes slide away slowly, like sand in an hourglass, and you force your brain to take a temporary backseat, leaving you blissfully numb. You get dressed, throwing on some old clothes, and then you go about your regular chores, moving around the house in a daze, on auto-pilot.

Finally, after an eternity, your friend calls down to you. Her voice is steady and neutral, giving nothing away.

“Hey, I think the results are in, {y/n}…”

The short journey upstairs to the bathroom is agony, even though you’re pretty damn sure what to expect, despite ample evidence to the contrary.

_No way._

_No chance._

_Nope._

And then you open the door, and your friend is sitting upon the floor, hunched over the kit, and you see her _face_. You don’t need to see the results; her face tells you everything, in one silent exchange.

“Oh, {y/n}. Honey, I’m sorry…”

_Shit._

_Holy fucking shit._

You’re pregnant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once you’re alone, with your friend sworn to secrecy and promising to look in on you later, you sprawl upon the couch, your coffee sitting cold and untouched upon the table, beside the lamp. You had tried to drink it, at her behest, but you suddenly couldn’t bear the taste or the smell of it.

_Shit._

_What am I going to do?_

You have to talk to Pennywise first, before you make any decisions. It’s not that you feel any obligation towards him, not in this particular matter; it’s _your_ body, after all. And besides, you doubt that he’ll have any strong opinions, either way. He hasn’t shown much paternal interest in Junior, nor has he ever voiced a desire for more children, or _offspring_ , as he puts it.

_He eats children._

_Human children._

You shiver, your hands drifting over your flat stomach, and then you bury your face into a cushion, repressing the urge to scream.

You _need_ him, all the same. He always knows what to say, what to _do_ , and you want him here, to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you that everything is going to be alright, even if you know that it’s not true. Your mind is reeling, still struggling to process the events of this morning.

_What if you decide to keep it?_

It’s out of the question, of course. You’re too young, too reckless and selfish, in love with freedom and the future; just as you _should_ be, at your age. Your circumstances are far from ideal. You hate your job, you don’t make enough money, and you work long hours. You can rely on your parents, once they’ve gotten over the shock and the disappointment, and on your friends too, but you have no partner to support you. And you’re stuck here, in Derry, when you swore that you would never stay here, and certainly never raise any child of yours in this shitty town, if you could help it.

_It’s a small town. People talk, they talk too damn much, and they’ll want to know, won’t they?_

_There’ll be questions. There’ll be gossip._

“Who’s the father, {y/n}?”

_Who’s the daddy?_

And therein lies the crux of this particular problem.

The father of your unborn baby is either a child-eating alien clown…or his potential ‘son’, who is also a child-eating alien clown. You have to face up to the possibility that Penny might not have fathered whatever is currently growing inside of you. That inauspicious honour might have fallen to Junior, instead; there’s no way of telling, not yet anyway.

_And then there’s the baby itself to consider._

What if it isn’t entirely human?

_What if it’s…like them?_

_What if it takes after its daddy?_

You have very little understanding of just what they actually _are_ , despite your efforts to probe, to get some answers. They’re not human, they’re not from this planet, or even this _galaxy_ , and that’s about all you know. You’re not even sure of their true forms. You’ve only ever seen the clowns, or the _angry_ clowns, although you’re aware that they can shape-shift upon a whim, to suit their needs.

Penny had mentioned eggs once, when you had asked him about his reproductive abilities.

What if there’s an egg inside of you? An actual egg, rather than the tiny human equivalent.

_An alien egg, with an alien baby growing within, inside your mortal womb. An alien baby with tentacles, and terrible powers, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh._

_What if you can’t give birth to it? What if it rips its way out of you, instead? Or eats its way out of you, with razor-sharp fangs? What’s if there’s a whole brood of them in there, using your body like a living incubator?_

_What if, what if, what if…_

You push yourself up, sliding from the couch, your head ringing with questions, and images of gory images burning into the red shadows behind your eyelids. You can’t stop picturing that infamous scene from _Alien_ , when the infant Xenomorph suddenly bursts out of John Hurt’s chest, in a gout of bright blood.

_Oh, get a grip, {y/n}!_

You’re going to drive yourself crazy before long, if you keep this up. Shrugging into your jacket, you head out into the crisp spring air, squinting against the brash sunlight. You decide to go over to the trailer, hoping to catch Penny there. It’s early afternoon and the streets are deserted, with the kids tucked safely away at school for another few hours yet, away from the clutches of their would-be predators. Until the last class of the day is dismissed, there’s no reason for the clown to be anywhere other than the trailer, or down in the sewers.

_Oh man, I really hope that he’s not down there._

Even after all this time, you still hate going into the sewer system and you try to avoid it, whenever possible.

But for once, luck is on your side; Penny is sitting out front, on the metal steps of the trailer, smoking a cigar. As always, you feel that familiar rush of twisted joy at the sight of him, so perfectly at home and yet so _bizarre_ , so out of place, with his white face and red lips. Sensing your approach, he raises his eyes, those _gorgeous_ blue eyes, and favours you with a warm smile.

“Hey, babydoll.”

You return his smile wholeheartedly, your blood _singing_ for him, and then you catch a whiff of cigar-smoke, dense and pungent, and your stomach lurches wildly, bringing you to an abrupt halt within a few paces of him. The clown moves to your side, his brow furrowed, and you immediately press a hand against your mouth, trying not to hurl your guts up. Still, he keeps coming, and you shake your head, waving your free hand at him, as though trying to usher him away, or dispel the smoke which surrounds him, thick and fog-like.

“You okay, baby?”

Eventually, you manage to quell the sickness, holding your hands against your heaving ribcage. You swallow, taking little sips of air in through your nose, “I’m fine. I’m okay. Just, _please_ , don’t smoke around me, Pen. I can’t stand the smell of it.” Your words are clipped, your tone short, because you’re horribly aware that the queasy feeling could return at any moment, and you don’t want to be caught with your mouth open, just in case. You close your eyes, trying to regain your composure, “We need to talk, Pen.”

Flicking his cigar away, Penny moves closer, his eyes drifting over your face and body, taking in every inch of you, with slow deliberation. He takes your chin between his gloved fingers, tilting your face up to his, and he smiles again, his voice low and gentle, “You feelin’ rough, doll?”

You nod tentatively, “Well, that’s kinda what I need to talk to you about…”

The clown releases his hold upon your chin, his fingers trailing across your jaw, your throat, lingering briefly upon your breasts, and then _down_ , following the curve of your waist, until they come to rest upon your pelvis. He cups your stomach between his hands, his thumbs joining over your navel, and then his eyes slide up to meet your questioning gaze. You can see your face there, reflected in those bright blue depths.

_He knows._

_Oh, he knows…_

“You’re gonna have a baby, {y/n}.” Penny chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “You’re gonna have _my_ baby.”

“Yeah.”

And that’s all you can say because just like that, in this moment, with his hands and eyes upon your ripening body, the world softens around you, and your doubts and fears melt away. And you know that the decision has already been taken out of your hands, but somehow, you can’t bring yourself to fight it.

Because you _want_ this.

_You want this, you want him, and you don’t care about anything else._

 

* * *

 

 

You thrash things out in the trailer, after Penny’s stripped you of your clothes and made sure to kiss every inch of your naked skin, and you’re sitting on his lap, curled around him, sinking back into the old La-Z-Boy. You’re keeping the baby, that’s been settled, but you still have questions that you want answered, and fears that need to be allayed, before you can think about moving forward from this point.

_Firstly, how did this happen, and why now, after almost a year of strenuous and regular fucking, without any form of contraceptive?_

“I’m not sure _how_ , to tell you the truth, doll.” Penny shrugs, drawing his hands across your shoulders, his clever fingers slowly easing the tension from your muscles, “It’s never happened before, that’s for sure. Like I told ya, my kind reproduces asexually. But we adapt to the forms we take, and I’ve been fucking you in _this_ form, so maybe that’s got something to do with it. I’ve taken on a human shape, with a human _cock_ , and I guess we’ve just found out that it’s fully operational.”

You snort at that, shifting upon his lap, your thighs compressing the tell-tale bulge between his parted legs, “Yup, definitely operational. Never had any complaints about _that_ , Pen.”

“Oho, you’re a _naughty_ girl, {y/n}.” He chuckles, brushing his lips against the nape of your neck, “Now, as to _why_ , I think I might have worked that one out.” You turn your head, eyeing him curiously, and he offers you a shrewd smile, “If we’re going by the dates of your last period, I reckon this must’ve happened right around the time that I’d be gettin’ ready to lay some eggs, if that’s what I wanted to do. That’s why I’ve been so fucking horny lately, because it’s the stage in my cycle when I go into heat, and my body is tellin’ me to reproduce. But I’ve been _busy_ , haven’t I? And I’m not feelin’ the urge to produce a clutch, so I’ve just gone ahead and bred _you_ instead, without even realisin’ it.”

The clown pauses, giving you time to process this new information, his eyes taking in your bemused expression. You frown, running the tips of your fingers across your bare stomach, “So, you’re saying that…that I’m your _mate_ , or something? Is that right?”

Penny smirks, his hands moving to cover yours, resting upon your abdomen, “Yeah, you could put it like that, I suppose.” He gives you a playful squeeze, nudging against your shoulder, “Do you _like_ that, babydoll? Do you wanna be ol’ Pennywise’s mate, his little _bitch_ , hmmm? Yeah, I know you do.”

You roll your eyes, pushing back against him, but his words send a sudden frisson of white-hot lightning burning through you, pulsing insistently within your core.  

“Next question, doll.” Penny murmurs fiercely, filling his hands with your breasts, “Make it quick, though. Daddy _wants_ you, sweet thing…”

_Oh, that bastard…_

_How does he expect you to concentrate, when he’s touching you like that?_

“ _Eggs._ What about the eggs?” You finally manage to blurt it out, your mind fumbling for the words, dulled by his lascivious attentions, “Am I pregnant with an egg? One of _your_ eggs? Or more than one?”

“Probably not.” Penny’s tone is impatient now, exasperated, and ragged with desire, “Told ya, this is a human shape, and I’m bound to its limitations, when I’m using it. So, human seed, growing in a human body; I’m thinking the chances of you carrying my eggs are slim to none. Besides, if I’d managed to shoot one of those things into you, we’d both have known about it, believe me.”

“Are they big?”

“Yeah.” He huffs, dragging his tongue across your jawline, “There’s no way that I could have gotten one into you without either of us feelin’ it.”

Suddenly, he stands, curling his arms beneath your thighs, and he carries you into the bedroom, depositing you upon the mattress with the greatest care, as though you are made of the most delicate china. He removes his clothes, shedding the clown-suit like a second skin, and then slides beneath you, positioning you above him, moving his hands over your naked body.

“What are you doing?” You smile shyly, your face burning under the scrutiny of his blue eyes, “Stop _looking_ at me like that, will you?”

“Can’t get enough of you, doll.” Penny smirks, cupping your breasts, “Drivin’ me crazy, just thinkin’ about your tits, all swollen with milk, and my baby growing in your belly.”

Your smile fades, “There’s a chance that it might not be yours, Pen. You’re not the only… _clown_ that I’ve been with, remember?”

Penny shrugs, pursing his lips, “Yeah, maybe. But we’ll probably never know for sure, so why worry about it?” He reaches up to curl his fingers into your hair, tugging lightly, “The odds are in my favour, though. I mean, how many times have I fucked you, babydoll?”

You shake your head, “I haven’t been keeping count. You’re right, I guess.” Penny’s hand slips between your legs, his fingers rubbing between your folds, teasing you to arousal. You catch your lip between your teeth, stifling a moan. With his touch, your grip on reality is fading away, but you’re determined to have the last word in this, so you steel yourself, pressing through the pleasant haze, “But I think we should tell _him_ , anyway. It’s only fair.”

“Awww, you’re breakin’ my heart, {y/n}.” Penny snorts, rolling his eyes, but he seems surprisingly willing to indulge you, “Leave the brat out of this for now, hmmm? Just for tonight, and then you can tell him, okay?”

“Oh, I see.” You giggle, playfully running your hands through his bright red hair, “Daddy wants to keep me all to himself, does he?”

Penny grins, “What can I say? I’m _greedy_ , baby.” He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, his eyes devouring you, as you moan and arch above him, “And you’re so _sweet_ , doll…” Without warning, he slides his hands over your waist, rolling you on to your back, and then he moves between your parted thighs, smiling at your dazed expression as he lowers his red mouth to your cunt.

“Such a sweet little _treat_ , aren’t ya? Much too good to share.”


	2. The First Trimester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extreme violence and attempted sexual assault.

**_1985_ **

In the end, you wait an entire week before talking to Junior, mostly because you’re still struggling to process the news yourself, but also because you’re absolutely _terrified_. You don’t know how the younger clown will react; he’s unpredictable at the best of times, after all.  

Holed up in the trailer, waiting for Junior, you pace the floor relentlessly, chewing upon your fingernails. Penny is lounging in the La-Z-Boy, leafing through one of your mother’s old parenting books, and doing absolutely nothing to assuage your nerves. After a while, he glances up from the page, watching your fevered patrol across the kitchenette, “You’re gonna wear a hole in the linoleum if you keep that up, babydoll.”

You ignore the jibe, wringing your hands together, “Do you…do you think he’ll freak out? I mean, he might try to _eat_ me, or something.”

Penny chuckles, setting the book aside, “You’d give him some hellish indigestion, I bet.”

You move to stand before the chair, rolling your eyes, “It’s not funny, Pen.”

“Oh, come on, baby.” The clown pulls you down to him, on to his knee, mussing your hair teasingly, “You really think that I’d let anything happen to you? The brat would be sucking his meals through a straw, if he tried it.” He presses a kiss against your shoulder, nipping playfully at your skin, “Anyway, if someone’s gonna eat you, it’ll be _me_ , once I’ve had enough of that smart mouth of yours.”

The door slams open and you jump, instinctively curling your arms around Penny’s neck, your eyes wide in your taut face. Junior peers into the trailer, his nostrils already flaring, picking up your scent. He moves inside, closing the door behind him, and slinks over to the couch. His form is tall and gangling, ridiculously so, but he moves with startling grace, like some lean jungle predator. Folding his long legs beneath him, he turns those magnetic eyes upon you, amber and askew. The tip of his tongue slides out, running over his wet lips, and you shudder at the sight of it, your hands moving impulsively over your stomach, as though seeking to protect whatever is growing inside of you.

Junior’s eyes dart from your face to Penny, and then back again, moving fitfully over your body, “You summoned me?”

Penny snorts, pushing you from his lap, “Go take a walk, babydoll.”

You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but his stony expression immediately silences you. Knowing better than to argue with him, you shrug into your jacket and head outside, leaving the two clowns alone together, in the trailer. It’s surprisingly cold for this time of year, the air crisp and sharp. You sigh, your breath pluming like smoke, and then you walk into the treeline, enjoying the stillness of the deserted copse.

You’re a little annoyed to be excluded from the conversation. You feel like a child, sent to bed early so that the grown-ups can talk. But deep down, you’re more grateful than anything else, to have been given an opportunity to escape the situation, and you know that Penny will be able to handle things perfectly well on his own.

After an hour of wandering aimlessly through the woods, you make your way back to the trailer, trying to ignore the knot of sick dread constricting within your guts. You pause at the door, your fist poised to rap upon the metal frame, and then it swings open, and you’re being pulled inside, into a tight embrace. Junior wraps his arms around you, drawing you flush against him, and you’re about to _scream_ , to kick at his legs in a desperate attempt to escape, when you realise that he’s _purring_.

_Purring, like your pet cat._

The knot in your stomach eases, your fears ebbing away, and you relax against him, as he croons your name and nuzzles his face into your hair. After a few moments, Penny coughs impatiently, his voice rising from somewhere in the trailer, sounding both amused and exasperated, “That’ll do, kid. Don’t suffocate her, you big goon.”

The tall clown reluctantly loosens his grip, allowing you to step away, and then he _stares_ at you, at your stomach, his red lips stretching into an _impossible_ grin, almost splitting his face in two. He reaches out, his long fingers brushing softly against your navel, almost tentative in their perusal of your midriff.

“Baby.” Still purring, Junior raises his amber eyes to meet your gaze, “My baby.”

“ _Our_ baby.” You correct gently, curling your fingers over his gloved hand, “Yours and mine, and Pen’s.”

“Yes.” He gives you a reverent stroke, quietly worshipping your body, “Our baby.”

Penny chuckles, moving to stand beside you, “Geez, what a fucking _sap_. Honestly, I’m embarrassed on his behalf.”

He looks pleased, though.

They _both_ look pleased.

_Over the moon._

And so do you, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, your face shining with some beatific inner light.

_You’re glowing._

 

* * *

 

 

  
The fabled glow doesn’t last.

It’s damn near impossible to look _radiant_ when you’re kneeling on the bathroom floor, with your head dipping over the toilet, wretchedly vomiting your guts out, along with your barely digested breakfast.

Groaning miserably, you flush the mess away and watch the water swirl around the bowl, stifling the urge to retch again. You can’t crawl back into bed, even though you want nothing more than to hide under the covers for the rest of the day. You’re due to work the evening shift at the diner and you can’t think of a plausible excuse to get out of it, since you already called in sick last week, so that you could attend your first appointment at the hospital.

A month has passed since the morning that you first took the pregnancy test, one month of almost non-stop puking, but you haven’t told anyone about the baby yet, other than the clowns and your friend. You’re planning on keeping it that way for as long as possible, because you’re not ready to face the inevitable questions. Fortunately, your initial appointment had been with one of the midwives, rather than with Doc Baynes. You’d prefer that your parents hear the news first-hand, from your own lips, and you just know that the old man couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long, not about something like this.

The midwife was relatively young, an out-of-towner with a fresh face and a modern stance on the world. She had tackled the elephant in the room without much a preamble, immediately asking whether the father of your baby would also be attending the appointment, but she had not blushed when you told her that you were planning to raise the child as a lone parent, and she had not beleaguered the point. And then she had weighed you, taken your blood-pressure, listened to the baby’s heartbeat, and taken down the dates of your last period.  

“So, you’re a little over eleven weeks pregnant, if these dates are right. Have you had any morning sickness yet?”

“Morning sickness?” You had chuckled ruefully at that, “Morning, noon and night sickness, you mean?”  

The midwife had smiled, pencilling something into your notes, “That bad, huh? Well, it should settle down soon, but make sure that you’re drinking plenty of water. It’s easy to get dehydrated at this stage.” She opened her diary, scanning through the calendar, “You can come in for an ultrasound scan next week. It’s nothing to worry about, it’s just so we can check up on your progress and get some early measurements. Is July fifth okay for you? At ten o’clock?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine.” Your stomach had lurched then, a nervous flutter, like the wings of a tiny butterfly, “And I’ll get to see my baby, on the screen?”

“Yes, you’ll see the baby. Well, it won’t _look_ much like a baby, but that’s perfectly normal. It’s about the size of a small lime, at this point.”

In different circumstances, you’d have appreciated that little snippet of information; really, a small lime? How strange, how _wonderful._ But you could only think about seeing your baby, and then you had felt another stab of fear, as your thoughts turned once again to _tentacles_ and _eggs_ , imagining the looks of horror and shock upon the faces of the midwife and the radiographer, when they saw the _alien thing_ growing within your womb.

_July fifth, at ten o’clock._

_Three days to go._

You head into work, still feeling sick, with the beginnings of a migraine unfurling across the base of your skull.

The diner is mostly empty, but your colleague looks harassed all the same, and you quickly ascertain the reason for their displeasure; a group of young men are hanging around beside the jukebox, feeding dimes into the machine and bellowing with obnoxious laughter. You recognise most of them, much to your chagrin. The ringleader is a notable troublemaker, known for rampaging around town on his motorcycle, with his fawning entourage in tow. He was in your little sister’s classes at school and he was a _douche_ even back then, a constant presence in the detention hall and outside of the principal’s office.

And now he’s _here_ , obviously drunk and spoiling for a fight.

“That’s why we’re so quiet tonight.” Your workmate murmurs, “They’ve scared most of the other customers away. I can’t get _rid_ of them, {y/n}.”

“Do you want me to call the cops?” You say, keeping your voice low and your eyes upon the plates stacked in your hands, “I’ll use the phone in the back.”

It takes almost an hour for anyone to respond, but Jim Reeves eventually shows his face, and he sees the gang out with a few choice words. The ringleader shoots you a venomous glare on his way out, but you stare him down, defiant and unafraid.

_Keep it up, smart guy._

_There’s worse things in this town than you, far worse things, and I’m fucking them both._

The rest of your shift runs smoothly, without incident, and then you lock up for the night, swinging the sign on the door from _open_ to _closed_ , and pocketing the keys. You walk home, your hands thrust deep into the pockets of your jacket. The unseasonable cold snap has long since dissipated, but it’s still unexpectedly cool for early July, and you seem to be feeling the effects of it more than you usually would.

You cross the street, heading towards the canal, and you decide to cut through Bassey Park, just to shake up your routine. You haven’t gone more than ten paces into the park before a hand curls around your mouth, and another grasps your waist, and then you’re being dragged from the footpath and into the darkness, shrieking helplessly against rough smoke-stained fingers.

“Thought you were pretty slick, didn’t ya, {y/n}?” It’s that asshole from the diner, his voice snarling through the gloom as he spins you around, pinning you against a tree. The air is forced from your lungs in a loud grunt and he smirks down at you, planting an arm across your heaving chest, “Setting the pigs on me and my friends, when we were just having some fun. Weren’t we, boys? Just trying to have a little _fun_ …” There is muffled laughter from behind him, as three of his goons advance upon you, grinning like fools.

“And terrorising people is your idea of fun?” You shake your head, scowling up at him, “You’re a bully and a creep, and that’s all you’ve ever been. Now let me go, or I’ll scream.” Your heart is pounding, and you’re quivering with fear, but you draw strength from your anger, from the rage building within you, and you stare him down, your eyes hard and bold.

“Oh, I think we’d _like_ to hear you scream...” His lips quirk into a cruel smile, “You’re not as pretty as your sister, you know, but you still look _fine_ in that little uniform. Bet you’re not wearing any panties, are you?” He laughs at your indignant expression, and his friends advance, yapping and hooting, like a pack of hyenas closing in on a fresh kill. The fingers of his free hand curl around the hem of your skirt, tugging at the material, “Always wanted to have a look under here, {y/n}. Come on, let’s see that pussy…”

“Leave me alone. I’m warning you…”

He shrugs, a sneer curling his upper lip, “We can do this the easy way, sweetheart, or we can do it the hard way. I really don’t give a fuck.” He mutters something inaudible and another man moves to stand beside you, threading thick fingers into your hair. You catch a glimpse of _steel_ in the other hand, moonlight reflected upon a switchblade, poised between your breasts. 

_Suddenly, you remember the baby, and a fresh wave of panic floods into your chest._

You want to cry, to beg them not to hurt you, not to hurt _your baby_ , but the words won’t come.

_Please, oh please, no…_

“Get _off_ me!” When you finally muster it, your voice is shrill and desperate, and you hate yourself for it. The men smirk at each other, and the sight of their smug faces sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through your limp frame. You manage to grab the ringleader’s wrist, in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable, snarling furiously at him, “Get the _fuck_ off me, you piece of _shit_ , or…”

He glowers at you, like a thwarted child, “Or _what_? Are you gonna squeal again, {y/n}? You gonna tell your daddy on me?”

_Daddy._

Later, when you’re replaying it over in your head, you can’t remember what exactly happened in the next few seconds, but in that exact moment, there is a sudden change in the atmosphere, in the very air surrounding you.

_It’s as though someone has struck a light; you can almost hear it, harsh in the stillness, and then there is a smell like burning, like dead matches…_

_Something is about to happen._

_Something is coming…_

But you are still trapped against the rough bark of the tree, with a hand crudely groping at your thighs, helpless and palpitating. Your assailant leans into you, to slide his tongue against your compressed lips.

You close your eyes.

And then, you hear a _scream_ , an unholy cacophony of wailing terror, and you flinch as something hot and wet splatters across your face. The cold steel drags wildly across your breast, the sharp tip stuttering against your flesh and sinking into you, and then it is gone, and the hand squirming between your thighs goes _slack_ , falling away from your skin. Your eyes fly open, your breath catching in your throat, and then you let out a wretched _sob_ , cringing back against the tree.

The man, the _boy_ , is standing there, his eyes still fixed upon you, wide and staring. A pair of gloved hands are enclosed around his head, holding him fast, and razor-tipped claws are sinking into the meat of his face, into his cheeks, drawing lines of blood across his skin. The hands move over his lips, forcing his mouth open, the claws hooking around his teeth.

A _grunt_ and a sharp tug, and his jaw comes apart, with a terrible _crack._

His face seems to split, his mouth being forced even _wider_ by those cruel talons, and then there is a hideous rending sound, the sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones, another grunt, louder this time, and your attacker’s head is ripped into two halves, the lower jaw falling away with the rest of his body, dropping to the ground as dead weight.

You clap a hand over your mouth, stifling a scream, and your gorge rises, forcing vomit into your throat. Penny is standing before you, his white face grim and stark in the moonlight, sprayed with blood, and the severed head dangles from his fingers, still staring up at you, the eyes bulging and lifeless.

But the clown’s eyes are _alive_ , glowing like a pair of fiery coals in the darkness, blazing through you, but his voice is soft, “Did he hurt you, babydoll?”

You’re petrified, frozen against the tree-trunk, like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Penny growls, tossing the mutilated scalp away, and then he coaxes you into a gentle embrace, hoisting you into his arms and clutching you against his chest. You’re trembling uncontrollably, and then another ragged scream fills the air, and you curl your fingers into the silk material of the clown-suit, squeezing your eyes shut against the sound.

“It’s okay.” Penny murmurs, stroking your hair, “It’s okay, {y/n}. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, the scream is cut off, and Junior scrabbles out of the bushes to your left, panting and salivating. The tall clown lopes across the clearing, coming to an abrupt halt beside Penny, his wild amber eyes darting over your face. His long fingers trail over your lips, your eyelids, until you finally open your eyes, blinking up at the night sky, at the white faces hovering over you.

“Let’s get you home, baby.”

Junior draws away, growling, circling around the trampled grass, “I caught two of ‘em, Pen. The bastards tried to run, but they didn’t get far. Tore their legs out from under them…” He inhales, nostrils flaring, like a wolf trying to pick up the scent of nearby prey, “But…the one with the knife, the one who _cut_ her…” The younger clown snarls, his fangs rasping together, snapping furiously at the air, “He got away, but I’ll find him. Oho, I’ll make him _suffer_.”

You open your mouth, wanting to call out to him, to stop him, but then you remember the feeling of abject helplessness, the sheer terror rising within you, when you thought that you and the baby were going to die, and you think better of it, curling deeper into Penny’s embrace.

The older clown rolls his eyes, “Knock yourself out, kid. I’m gonna take her home, before anyone else shows up.” He moves away, his hands cradling your body, “But make sure you give him my _best_ regards, hmm?”

Junior nods, smirking, and turns upon his heel, disappearing into the gloom.

You must have drifted into dreams, lulled by the warmth of Penny’s arms, because you’re back at home when you open your eyes again, stretched out upon your own bed, with Frank nestled beside you, purring gently. You’re naked, with a thin coverlet draped over your aching body, and you can hear the quiet rush of running water, coming from behind the closed door of the ensuite.

“Pen?” You push yourself up, wincing at the stiffness of your limbs, “Penny, is that you?”

The clown pushes the door ajar, peering around the frame at you, “Well, it ain’t the bogeyman, that’s for sure.” You let out a wry chuckle at that, which makes him smile, and then he moves across the room, scooping you into his arms again. Curiously, Frank does not attempt to hide or flee, despite Penny’s close proximity. The cat would usually be out of here in a flash, once he got a whiff of the clown’s scent, but he doesn’t even _hiss_ this time, even though his ears are set back, low and flat against his head. Penny chuckles, reading your expression, “He knows that you’re hurtin’, babydoll, and he knows that I didn’t do it.”

_For once._

You bury your face against his shoulder, frowning as he carries you into the ensuite.

_Penny didn’t hurt you this time, but he’s hurt you plenty in the past, and he’s hurt others too._

_And tonight, you saw exactly what he is capable of, and the experience has left you badly shaken. Even more so than the gang’s attack, if you’re honest._

Still, you can’t bring yourself to hate him for it. He was protecting you, protecting your unborn child.

_They were going to rape me._

_They could have killed the baby._

Your mind is reeling, struggling to process any of it, and you push the thoughts away, allowing Penny to help you into the bathtub. The water is warm and overflowing with scented bubbles; the lavender and jasmine blend, your favourite.

You stay quiet for a while, lounging in the water. Penny washes your hair and rinses it, and then he gently scrubs your body, until your skin is clean and glowing. You grimace as his fingers brush over the shallow cut left by the switchblade, a thin zigzag running over the swell of your left breast. The clown lets out a low growl, his eyes darkening, “I’m not sorry for what I did tonight, babydoll.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, managing a tentative smile, “I know, Pen.”

“I’m sorry that you had to see it, though.” He stoops over you, pressing his lips against the bloody slash in your skin, “Daddy’s gotta take care of you.” His fingers curl across your stomach, rubbing circles across your navel, “Both of you.”

Later, once your wound has been patched up and you’ve dried yourself off, you sprawl upon the bed, with Frank curled upon your chest and Penny dozing beside you, one arm slung lazily across your midriff. After a while, Junior comes hulking into the room, huffing and gibbering, his pale clown-suit stained with fresh blood. It takes a little over an hour to placate him, to convince him that you’re safe and unharmed, before he eventually allows you to strip him of his sullied garments. He curls against your back, muttering ominously, his large hands moving relentlessly over your midriff, until Penny finally reaches across to give him a sharp rap upon the knuckles.

“Let her sleep, brat.”

And you do sleep, despite it all. As a matter of fact, you sleep better than you have in months, nestled snugly between the two clowns, with their hands upon your body and the cat draped over your feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You manage to get through the next two days with minimal stress, even though the recent murders are splashed all over the local newspapers. You try not to read any of the stories, or watch the reports on the television, but you can’t escape the gossip.

“The last body was found in the public toilet block, over at Bassey Park.” One of your colleagues tells you, in a ghoulish whisper, “Upended in the toilet bowel, with huge chunks ripped out of his ass. My cousin was there, when the cops dragged him out, and he says that the guy’s cock had been torn off and stuffed into his mouth.”

“Awful.” You shake your head, keeping your eyes upon the notepad in your hand, “I can’t believe that they were in here just before it happened.”

“Good riddance, I say.” Your colleague smiles ruefully, “This isn’t like the missing kids, {y/n}. Now _that’s_ awful. No, whoever killed those fucking schmucks did us all a favour.”

You can’t help but replay the events of that night in your head, over and over again, but you have bigger things on your mind; the date of your first scan is looming and you’re nervous as all hell. You head straight to the trailer from work, still wearing your uniform. The two clowns are already there, waiting for you, and before you have a chance to think about what you’re going to say, you’ve opened your mouth and asked them to come with you tomorrow, to the hospital.

_What the fuck?_

You had been all set it go it alone, but you’re still terrified of what might happen, of what you might see upon the screen, and you need them there with you, for comfort and support.

You _want_ them to be there, to see the baby.  

_It feels right._

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, babydoll.” Penny chuckles, dragging you on to his lap, “Don’t worry, we’ll be discrete. Won’t we, kid?”

“Mmhmm.” Junior reclines at your feet, resting his head upon your knee, “They won’t even know that we’re there, {y/n}. Honest.”

The next morning, you head over to the hospital, trying to ignore the relentless writhing of your guts. The clowns meet you outside and, true to their word, they haven’t even bothered to disguise themselves, choosing to stay _unseen_ rather than go to the trouble of adopting a pair of suitable human personas for the occasion.  

A little after ten o’clock, you’re lying upon a couch, in a darkened room, with your bare stomach gelled up and a handheld monitor gliding across your skin. The gel is cold and your bladder is uncomfortably full, but you don’t care, because you’re completely focused on what the radiographer and the midwife have to say, keeping your eyes fixed upon the little screen to your left.

The clowns are with you, invisible to everyone else. Penny stands at the head of the couch, combing his gloved fingers through your hair, the corners of his red lips tilted into a half-smile, bemused and entertained by this new experience. Junior is lurking in a corner, his bright eyes roving ceaselessly between your stomach and the screen.

“Here we go, {y/n}. You should be able to make something out now, I think.”

The image is grainy, black and white and grey, like a bleak flurry of snow against a dark sky.

“There’s a leg, you see? And that’s the spine, and the…oh, the little monkey is rolling over! Trying to give us the slip, aren’t you?”

Your heart is racing, galloping in your chest like a wild horse, but you’re smiling, as your eyes adjust to the picture upon the screen, and you begin to recognise familiar body parts when the radiolographer points them out.

 _Human_ body parts, arms and legs and a heartbeat and _everything_.

And not a fucking _tentacle_ in sight.

“Your baby seems just fine, {y/n}.”

The midwife smiles down at you, jotting down the foetus's current measurements. You catch Penny’s gaze, beaming happily up at him. He winks, mouths _told ya so_ , and rolls his eyes at Junior, who flashes that buck-toothed grin back at you both. You turn your eyes back to the screen, watching as the foetus somersaults through your womb. You can’t feel the movement though, because it’s still too small { _the size of a lime!_ }, but you could swear that you saw your stomach ripple beneath the monitor.

The radiographer slides the monitor to the right, and down, and then he _frowns_ at the screen, beckoning the midwife over, and your heart _drops_ , with a sickening jolt.

“What? What’s wrong?”

_Shit._

Your capricious brain goes into immediate free-fall, plumbing the depths of your imagination, conjuring John Hurt in _Alien_ , and eggs, and various anatomical horrors.

_Tentacles?_

_Teeth?_

_Something else?_

_Something worse?_

You can sense Junior’s agitation, can see him shifting in your periphery vision, moving closer to the couch. Penny seems unruffled by this new development, his hands still stroking through your hair. 

You try to draw strength from his touch, and his quiet presence at your side, but your voice trembles when you finally muster the courage to speak again, “What’s happening? What’s wrong with my baby?”

Suddenly, the midwife lets out a peal of sunny laughter, reaching down to bestow a reassuring pat upon your crooked elbow. Noting your bewildered expression, she points at the screen, at the shifting image, and then Penny chuckles mischievously, crouching down to press a kiss against your jawline. Junior is staring at the screen, his eyes glowing with some otherworldly light.

“You have _two_ babies, {y/n}.” The midwife says, tracing the outline of the second foetus with her finger, “Twins, and they’re absolutely _perfect_ , sweetheart.”

For a long moment, you can’t breathe, you can’t _think_ , and then you burst into tears, covering your face with your hands. One thing stands out for you, amongst the multitude of raw _feelings_ threatening to overwhelm you. Relief.

_Relief that your baby seems relatively human, for now._

_Relief that it is alive, that it is thriving within you, and growing strong._

_And the same for its twin, whom you already love with the same intensity, even though you didn’t know that the second child existed, until right now._

You sink back into the couch, your eyes drifting back to the screen, committing each tiny detail to memory. The radiographer continues with the scan, taking down the second baby’s measurements, a faint smile brightening his serious features, and the midwife scribbles it all down, prattling on about the many joys of having twins in the family.

When they’ve finished, the monitor is removed, and the radiographer takes his leave. The midwife hands you some tissue to wipe away the gel, “I’ll give you a few minutes to clean yourself up and get dressed, {y/n}. Come along to my room when you’re finished, and we’ll have a little chat about your next appointment, okay?” She gathers up your notes and slips out of the room, closing the door to ensure your privacy.  

You sit up, your legs dangling over the side of the couch, and you gaze down at your exposed midriff, shock and awe warring in your eyes. The two clowns climb up beside you, flanking your exhausted body, and you allow yourself to sink against them, stunned by the enormity of this unexpected news.  

Junior can’t seem tear his eyes away from your stomach, but Penny only has eyes for you. He’s feeding upon your emotions, basking in the waves of turmoil emanating from every pore in your body.

“You _knew_ , didn’t you?”

He shrugs and sidles closer to you, his blue eyes sparkling, “Lucky guess, that’s all.”

“Bullshit.” You fold your arms, scowling at him, “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“Didn’t want to scare you off, babydoll.”

“And we wanted to keep it all hush-hush until now, to make it more special for you.” Junior chimes in, giving your ass a merry pat, “ _Surprise_ , {y/n}! Two for the price of one, what a bargain!”

Penny smirks, nudging his shoulder against yours, “C’mon, don’t be mad, baby.”

“I hate you, clown.” You huff loudly, rolling your eyes, but you can’t stop yourself from smiling, and you don’t resist when they curl their arms around you, their hands splaying across your stomach, jostling for space upon your skin, “I hate _both_ of you.”


	3. The Second Trimester

**_1985_ **

You’re around seventeen weeks gone before the morning sickness finally begins to subside and, following this milestone, you enter a phase of unexpected _bliss_ , in which your energy and various appetites return, and you start to slowly relax into the pregnancy.

Without the near-constant threat of vomiting at any given moment, you find yourself wanting food and sex again, and as much of it as you can get, within reason. Fortunately, the clowns are more than willing to oblige, to indulge your every whim, however unreasonable it might seem.

It’s relatively innocuous, at first. You wake up in the middle of the night, snuggled between two warm bodies, with a sudden craving for Chinese food rendering you unable to sleep. After an hour of lying awake in the darkness, your fitful movements and louds huffs of displeasure finally rouse Penny, who rolls against you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder.

“What’s wrong, babydoll?”

“Nothing.” You mutter, feeling vaguely ridiculous, “I can’t sleep and…and I’m _hungry_.”

He chuckles, “Hungry? You’ve done nothin’ but _eat_ all day long, baby.”

“Yeah.” You sigh plaintively, wriggling against him, “I want spring rolls and rice, though. Oh, and prawn crackers.” He doesn’t reply to that, and you lapse into a moody silence, trying to ignore the insistent pangs of your stomach. Beside you, Junior shifts in the gloom, still dozing. He lets out a low growl, curling one long forearm across your midriff, as though protecting you from some unknown threat. You stay like that for a while, nestled between them, your eyes moving restlessly across the ceiling.

Eventually, Penny slides away, climbing out of the bed and pulling the clown-suit over his vest and boxers, grunting and cursing in the darkness. You gaze up at him, a silent question upon your parted lips, and he favours you with a long-suffering smile, “Can’t let you _starve_ now, can we?”

“Thanks, Daddy.” You chirp happily, rubbing your hands across your stomach in anticipation, “You know what I want, right?”

“Spring rolls, rice, prawn crackers.” He checks your order off upon his gloved fingers, “Anything else?”

“Egg-fried rice, please. Not boiled.” You clarify, in a small voice, peering over the covers at him, “And lemon sorbet too, if you can get some.”

“Geez.” Penny rolls his eyes, “You want the moon on a string, too?”

He returns within the hour, depositing the warm takeout boxes upon your lap, and he watches you eat, smiling fondly as you devour the food with unabashed gusto. The smell rouses Junior, who stays awake long enough to pilfer a spring roll from your hand, snickering when you snarl at him, snapping at his fingers.

“Motherhood suits you, babydoll.” Penny smirks at your outraged expression, reaching over to pat your stomach, “Got some _fire_ in your belly.”

“It’s called indigestion.” Junior mutters, inspecting his bruised fingers, “Look, she _bit_ me."

Penny shrugs, chuckling gleefully, “Serves you right, kid.”

Your cravings for late-night Chinese food lasts for a few weeks, much to Penny’s chagrin, and then your capricious appetite shifts, without warning, and you develop a taste for dry cornflakes and chocolate cake.

And then, one morning in late August, you’re standing in the kitchenette of the trailer, naked but for a pair of fluffy slippers, and you reach into the small refrigerator for a packet of fresh beef patties. You preheat the frying pan, and then you toss a patty on to the oil-slicked surface, allowing the meat to simmer and sear on one side for a few minutes, before flipping it and repeating the process. The meat is barely cooked; it’s edible, but definitely closer to _raw_ than _rare_. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t touch it, because you prefer your meat well-done {which makes you a philistine, according to your more ‘foodie’ friends}, but you want it like _this_ now, the _babies_ want it like this, and you’re fucking _ravenous._

You don’t bother with buns or condiments, or even with a plate. You just stab a fork into the patty and tear straight into it, humming with pleasure as the hot grease coats your lips.

You feel sick afterwards, once the craving has receded and you’ve come to your senses, but you figure that it’s probably just a one-off, or a passing fancy, so no harm done.

But you do the same thing every day for a week, and you start to worry that eating so much rare meat will have harm the babies, and so you bring it up at your next antenatal appointment, just in case. Your face is burning with shame when you talk about it, and you drop your eyes to avoid the midwife’s gaze, staring down at your hands instead, which are clasped upon your lap.

“It’s not uncommon, {y/n}.” She smiles reassuringly, scribbling in your notes, “You probably just need more iron in your diet, that’s all. Your body is trying to tell you that it needs more iron-rich foods. I’d advise you to steer clear of the rare meat, though. I can give you a list of some more suitable alternatives.”

You follow her guidance, trying your best to ignore the stubborn demands of your stomach, but you have _other_ appetites too, which are not so easily repressed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

With each passing week, your body is _changing_ , and you’re not quite sure how to feel about it.

The changes are imperceptible, at first; a slight rounding of your stomach and a heaviness in your breasts, as everything starts to grow, to _expand_ , right before your eyes. Easily hidden beneath your clothes, seemingly unnoticeable to everyone else, even your parents and close friends, who are still oblivious.

You can see it though, and it _bothers_ you, so you start to wear different clothes, to further disguise your condition. Baggy shirts and sweaters, despite the summer heat. Oversized dungarees, billowing dresses, layers upon layers, masking the curves of your ripening body.

Penny _hates_ it.

"I miss all those little skirts you used to wear, babydoll. Why you gotta cover yourself up like this? I wanna see some _skin_."  

You suspect that Junior hates it too, but the younger clown is less vocal about it, content to show his displeasure by immediately peeling the reams of material away from your body, rendering you naked in his long arms.

But Penny… _oh_ , he grumbles about it _nonstop_ , until you’re forced to strip and climb on to his lap, to pacify him with kisses. And sitting on Daddy’s lap, kissing his white face and red lips, is usually the precursor to an inevitable _fuck-fest_ , in which he devours every inch of you, apparently undisturbed by your changing shape.

But you can’t help but feel self-conscious about it, despite their relentless hunger for you.

“Ugh.” You stand before the mirror, turning this way and that, with your hands planted upon your hips, “I look _gross_ , Pen.”

The clown grunts, lounging in the La-Z-Boy, scarcely bothering to look up from his newspaper. He’s heard this all before, over the last weeks, and he’s bored of it. You won’t let up though, not until he caves and gives you what you want, what you _need_ ; his attention and affection, and the assurance that you are _not_ gross.

Eventually, Penny lets out an exasperated sigh, “You’re beautiful, {y/n}.” He peers over the newspaper, his bright blue eyes flickering appreciatively over your nude frame, “You’re fucking _beautiful_ , and you _know_ it, so quit fishin’ for compliments.” He disappears behind the newspaper, muttering to himself, and you pout sullenly, your lips forming a little moue of displeasure.

“Yeah, you say that _now_ , but what about later on, when I’m the size of a _house_ and covered in stretchmarks?”

“Won’t make a difference to me.” He leafs through the newspaper, his tone curt and irritable, “Hmm. They reckon it’s gonna rain tomorrow…”

You turn away from the mirror, frowning, and move to stand before the chair, batting playfully at the newspaper, like an irascible kitten. He ignores you, but you persist, until he eventually glares up at you, huffing impatiently, “You want something, baby?”

You slide on to his knee, crumpling the newspaper, pushing yourself flush against his torso. The clown rolls his eyes, trying to maintain a stern expression, but his red mouth twitches into an amused smile and you grin smugly, allowing yourself to savour this brief moment of triumph.

Penny shoves the newspaper aside, shifting beneath you, and then he grasps your hips between his gloved hands, “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” He presses his lips against the exposed lines of your throat, sucking at your skin until you’re keening upon his lap, panting and writhing beneath his touch. He ruts his hips against you, thrusting against your core, “Poor babydoll. You feelin’ neglected, hmm? Oh, you want Daddy's cock so  _bad,_ don't ya?" 

You manage a weak nod, your voice tremulous with desire, “I _need_ it, Daddy. _Please_ …”

“That’s my girl.” Penny smirks, giving your backside a little slap, “C’mon, turn around. Want you to see this.” He gestures at the mirror, his eyes gleaming, “Let’s put on a show, sweet thing.”

You realise his intentions and immediately bite your lip, your face burning, “I don’t think…”

“Ah ah, no arguments, baby. Just do as you’re told, like a good little slut.” The clown clasps his hands around your waist, forcing you to pivot upon his lap, until you’re facing the mirror, with your back resting against his chest. He places his hands upon your thighs, spreading you open, exposing the flushed petals of your cunt. You train your eyes upon the mirror, even though you’re almost dying from embarrassment, knowing that he’ll be displeased if you dare to drop your gaze. Penny lets out a rough chuckle, raising his hands to your breasts, toying with your nipples until they _burn_ , growing fat between his teasing fingers. You whimper, arching beneath his touch, and he curls a hand around your jaw, holding you fast, directing your gaze back to your reflection.  

“See how _pretty_ you are, babydoll?” He smiles at the mirror, tugging gently at the peak of one breast with his free hand, “Pretty as a picture.” The hand drops from your breast, ghosting over the blossoming curve of your stomach, “And what’s _this_ , hmm? What’ve you got in here, doll?”

“Your babies, Daddy.” You breathe the words, sighing as a frisson of excitement ripples through your body, “Your babies, growing inside of me.”

Penny smirks, trailing his fingertips over your midriff, from your navel to your ribcage, “That’s right, {y/n}. And you’re such a good breeding bitch for ol’ Pennywise, aren’t ya? Carrying my babies, keeping them nice and safe in there.” He growls an obscenity against your shoulder, dragging his tongue across your goose-pimpled skin, “Fuck, I think I’d have done this a _long_ time ago, sweet thing, if I’d known how _fine_ you’d look. Would have filled you up sooner, made you all hot and heavy, just to see you like _this_. Ripe and glowing, like a peach.”

You let out a keening moan, your eyes still fixed upon your reflection, “I’m yours, Daddy.”

“Yeah, you’re _mine_ , babydoll.” Penny murmurs hotly, thrusting up against your dripping centre, “My sweet little _peach_.”

He reaches down between your bodies, freeing himself from the constraints of the clown-suit, and then he braces his hands upon your shoulders and pushes you _down_ , sliding his length against your cunt. His dick drags slowly across your clit, grinding _hard_ until you _squeak_ , your fingers tensing upon the arms of the chair, your eyes closed, seeing stars in the blissful darkness.

“Open your eyes, {y/n}.”

Penny stops moving beneath you, his voice ragged and searing, but demanding obedience all the same. You comply immediately, allowing your gaze to drift over the mirror, the reflection sending an electric pulse through your pelvis, melting you to the very core.

_There you are, with your limbs spread open, your thighs straining and quivering, poised atop the clown’s thick cock, the magenta-coloured head gliding slickly between your drenched folds._

You almost wail at the sight, at the indecency of it all, and then Penny presses upon your shoulders again, forcing you down, until you’ve completely skewered yourself upon his cock, your muscles burning around his girth.

“You see that, babydoll?” Penny whispers, curling his arms around your waist, “You see how _good_ we look?” He rolls his hips, pumping up into you, smiling when you sigh and slide down upon him, “Look at us, doll. We’re a perfect fit, aren’t we? _Oh_ , you take me so _well_ …” You cry out, high on his praise, humping wildly upon his cock. He croons your name, keeping his eyes upon the mirror, watching as your face sheens over with sweat, “That’s it, baby. Go on, fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Come on, you can do it…”

It doesn’t take long before you’re _screaming_ , your hips juddering wildly, your toes curling almost painfully as you ride him into oblivion. He drives into you, chasing his own release and delivering yours, and then your climax hits like a freight train, forcing the air from your lungs in a shrill whine.

“Oh _fuck_ , Pen…”

You clench around his thickness, twitching out the last desperate throes of your orgasm, pulling him over the edge with you. He draws you back into his arms, against his heaving chest, and buries his face into your hair, “Mmm. I love watchin’ you cum, babydoll.”

You sag into his embrace, your breath coming in shallow pants, and then you _feel_ it, like a wave rippling across your body.

_The babies are moving._

_They’re shifting inside of you, turning within your womb, and you can feel it._

_Before now, you’ve only had the barest suggestion of their movements, just little niggles now and again, but this is different._

You gasp at the alien sensation, your eyes going wide, and you grab Penny’s hand, sliding it over your stomach, trying to follow the pattern of the twinging motions along your midriff. He frowns at your reflection, his red lips parted in a silent question, and then he feels it too, the lightest _kick_ against his touch, and he laughs delightedly, cupping his gloved fingers against your skin.

“All the commotion out here must’ve woken someone up, I reckon.” Penny chuckles ruefully, rubbing soothing circles across your stomach, “Sorry for disturbin’ you, little guy.”

Gradually, the small movements peter away, leaving you with a mingled sense of disappointment and exhilaration.

“That was amazing!” You sigh happily, leaning back into Penny’s arms, “Oh, I just wish that Junior could have been here to feel it, too. He’ll be so upset that he’s missed out on this.”  

“We don’t have to tell him, baby.” Penny rubs his face against yours, planting his hands upon your stomach, “Anyway, there’s always next time, and I’ll try not to gloat until then, okay?”

“Yeah.” You hum contentedly, closing your eyes, “I suppose I’ll have to break the news to my folks soon, before they figure it out. Geez, I’m not looking forward to _that_ conversation.”

The clown shrugs, “I could always _eat_ them, y’know. Save you the trouble.” You stiffen, narrowing your eyes at him, and he sniggers at your sour expression, tweaking your nose between his fingers, “I’m _joking_ , {y/n}. Besides, they’re too old for my tastes. They’d be all dry and flavourless. _Chewy._ I wouldn’t be able to keep ‘em down for long.”

“Ugh.” You roll your eyes, huffing out an exasperated sigh, “That’s not funny, Pen.”

_Still, you can’t help but wonder if there’s another way out of this mess, because you really don’t want to tell your parents._

_You can’t avoid it forever, though. You’re almost at the half-way point now, nineteen and a half weeks down, and you’re already bursting out of your clothes._

_Time is running out._

 

 

* * *

 

 

You spend the next month going over it all in your head, rehearsing the conversation over and over, but you needn’t have bothered, because your mother calls you to invite you over for dinner and you know that you’ve been caught out.

Her voice is _strange_ when she summons you, clogged and taut, repressing some deep emotion. You hang up, trying to quell the sudden roiling of your guts, and then you shrug into an oversized sweater and head over to their house, clutching a bottle of wine between sweat-slicked hands.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Your father is reclining in his old armchair, watching the news headlines on the television, but he switches it off when you make your way into the lounge, “You okay?”

You stoop over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, and he smiles up at you. For a moment, you wonder if you’re gotten the wrong end of the stick, because everything seems normal, but then he frowns, his eyes sliding carefully over your concealed stomach.

“I brought some wine, to serve with dinner.” You murmur awkwardly, setting the bottle upon the coffee table, “What are we having?”

“Potato salad, with bacon and cheese.” Your mother answers the question, peering around the door and wiping her hands upon her apron, “It’s almost ready. Will you come and set the table, {y/n}?”

“Yeah.” You manage a weak smile, “Sure thing, mom.”

Once the plates and cutlery have been laid out, and you’ve poured wine for your parents and soda for yourself, you take a seat and watch as your mother bustles around the table, ladling the food out and skilfully avoiding your gaze. Once you’re all seated, with full plates and full mouths, your father is the first to notice that you’re not drinking the wine and he clears his throat pointedly, directing your mother’s attention to the glass of soda in your hand.

She sets down her fork, the steel clattering loudly upon the plate, breaking the heavy silence, “Are you pregnant, {y/n}?”

You’ve just taken a mouthful of potato when she speaks, and you almost choke upon it, spluttering at her frankness. It’s typical of her, really. She’s never been one to hold back, to tiptoe around a situation, but even so, you hadn’t expected her to just blurt it out like that, without warning.

Your father is more tactful, as always, “We don’t want to pry, {y/n}. You’re an adult now, and we respect that you can make your own choices in life, without our say-so. Don’t we {m/n}?” He shoots a meaningful look across the table, at your mother, who nods in agreement. Sighing, he waits for you to regain your composure, and then he pushes away his plate, fixing you with patient eyes, “This isn’t an ambush, honey. We just want to know the truth, so that we can be here for you, and _help_ you, if that’s what you want.”

“ _Dad_ …” You drop your gaze, staring down at your lap, feeling the weight of their eyes upon you. It’s time to be honest with them, to bite the bullet, and you steel yourself, letting it out in a fevered rush of words, “Okay. _Okay._ Yes, I’m pregnant. The father already knows about it, but we’re not together and you don’t know him, before you ask. He’s not from Derry and he’s not planning to stick around. And _yes_ , I know that you’re both disappointed in me, and I know that I’ve fucked up, but that’s my cross to bear.” You take a deep breath, raising your eyes, and then you allow yourself a tremulous smile, “So, now you know, and you can give it to me straight. I won’t cry, because I’ve already cried myself _sick_ over this, too many times to count.”

Your mother lets out a tearful sigh, but it’s your father who speaks, his tone mild and reasonable, “How far along are you?”

_Too far along for a legal abortion, if that’s what he’s going to suggest._

_You had considered it, of course, but it’s gone too far for that to be an option now._

You make a show of counting upon your fingers, “Almost twenty-four weeks, I think.”

“Oh, honey.” Your mother pushes away from the table, moving to stand behind you. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and presses a light kiss against your cheek, her tears falling upon your face, “Why didn’t you _say_ anything? You could have told us...”

“I’m sorry.” You relax against her, soothed by the soft weight of her embrace, “I _wanted_ to tell you, mom. I _really_ did, but I was so scared. I just didn’t know what to do…” You pat her hand, turning your eyes upon your father, “How did you find out?”

He chuckles, “We’re not stupid, {y/n}. You really thought that you were fooling anyone, with those hideous sweaters and baggy shirts?”

“So, the whole town knows about it?”

“I don’t think so.” He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the wine glass before him, “No one’s said anything to me, at least not to my face, anyway. But we’re your _parents_ , {y/n}. We _know_ you.”

Your mother draws away, pulling you to your feet, and she gazes down at your stomach, “You seem big, for this stage.” She reaches down, asking permission with her eyes, and then she brushes her fingers across the swell, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Hello, little one. I’m your grandma.”

“It’s twins, mom.” You murmur gently, covering her hand with yours, “I’m having twins.”

“ _Oh._ Oh, honey.” She lets out a little sob, apprehension and excitement warring upon her tired face, “I can’t _believe_ it. Twins!”

“Yeah.” You smile wearily, shaking your head, “I just don’t know how I’m going to cope, once they’re here.”

Your father scratches his head, looking vaguely bemused, “Twins. Geez, {y/n}.”

“We’ll help you, sweetheart.” Your mother pipes up, smiling reassuringly, her hands resting upon your stomach, “I can drop some of my shifts, over at the store. Your dad can run the place without me, now that he’s taken on those nice boys as extra hands. And if you’re struggling for money…”

“I can manage, mom.” You frown, shifting uncomfortably, “I make enough to get by.”

“You’ll have two extra mouths to feed.” Your father, ever the pragmatist, is already doing the sums in his head, “Babies don’t come cheap.” He takes a large mouthful of wine, gulping it down, and then favours you with a little smile, “You didn’t take all of the money out of your college fund, you know. It’s still there, if you want it. There’s about fifteen hundred dollars left over, I think. We were going to give it to you anyway, if you decided to leave town again.”

_Fifteen hundred dollars._

_That would be enough to tide you over, at least until after your maternity leave, and then you could go back to work._

You reel slightly, feeling suddenly light-headed, “Are you sure?”

He waves a hand, dismissing your protests, “It’s your money, {y/n}. We saved it for you.”

“Thank you.” You smile tearfully, taking your mother’s hands, “Both of you.”

She bounces upon the spot, like an eager child, “Can I tell your sister? I’ll call her tonight, if that’s alright with you? Oh, she’ll be thrilled!”

“Sure, mom. I think I’ll give her a call too, just as soon as I get home from work tomorrow night.”

Your father nods quietly, regarding your stomach with a pensive glimmer in his eyes, “Guess I’d better break out the old toolkit. Make a start on that crib you’ll be needing, for my grandkids.”

_It’s the closest you’ll get to having his approval right now, until he’s had a chance to fully process the news, but you know that he’s happy for you._

_He’s a dab hand with woodwork. He had constructed so many toys for you and your sister, when you were kids, and he had built your first crib too, spending hours sweating over it, hidden away in the garage, whilst you were still growing in your mother’s womb._

_It had been a labour of love, and you know that his latest project will be the same, and that means more to you than any amount of money._

After dessert {homemade apple pie, of course}, you head home, feeling as though an immense weight has been lifted from your shoulders. The clowns are waiting for you, as always. You haven’t spent a night away from them since the attack in Bassey Park, whether means having them stay over at your house or bedding down at the trailer instead, if you can be bothered to hike through the woods. If one of them is out hunting, the other will stay behind, just to make sure that you’re not alone. Their combined attentions are a little stifling, but you appreciate the sentiment, most of the time.

Penny is lounging in your chair, with Frank curled upon his lap, and Junior is sitting upon the couch, his long legs crossed, a bowl of popcorn cradled between his knees. The drapes are closed and the room is dark, the only light coming from the television set. You drop your purse by the door, shrugging out of your coat and kicking your shoes away, and then you drop heavily on to the couch beside Junior, reaching across to steal a handful of popcorn.

“So, how’d things go with your folks, babydoll?”

“Better than expected.”

Penny stretches luxuriously, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the screen. Frank slides from his lap, ambling across the room to twine himself around your ankles. You reach down to pat him, absently stroking your fingers through his dark fur. Junior is silent, frowning at the television. They’re watching Looney Tunes, an old Wiley Coyote short, and it soon becomes apparent that the cartoons have been a subject of much discussion in your absence.

When the unfortunate coyote takes another dive over the cliff, his latest failure heralded by that familiar cloud of dust, you and Penny both roar with childish laughter, loudly reveling in your mutual enjoyment of the animated capers.

“I don’t understand. Am I supposed to find this amusing?” Junior grunts, stuffing popcorn into his mouth, “The bird-thing is obviously faster than that foolish wolf, and _smarter_ too, so why doesn’t he give up and look for easier prey? Or he could just wait until it falls asleep and then pound its smug little head in with a rock, instead of having to think of all these ridiculously complicated schemes and almost getting himself killed every fucking time.”

Penny snorts, rolling his eyes, “Firstly, that’s not a wolf, you fucking ignoramus. His name is Wiley Coyote and he’s…well, he’s a _coyote_ , obviously. The _bird-thing_ is Road Runner and yeah, he’s _faster_ than the coyote, but he’s not smarter than him. Wiley Coyote is a fucking _genius_ , but he’s really unlucky, and that’s what make it _funny_.”

“Yeah.” Junior scowls, unfurling his legs to stretch them across your lap, “In _your_ opinion.”

“In _everyone’s_ opinion.” Penny counters, pushing himself out of the chair, “That’s why it’s a classic, you goon.” He shoots you an exasperated smile, “I’m gonna have a smoke outside. You want me to put the cat out?”

You nod, turning your eyes back to the screen, “Don’t be too long, okay? I want to take a shower before bed.”

“Oho, is that an invitation, {y/n}?”

You shrug casually, reclining against Junior’s slim frame, “Might be, if you play your cards right.”

“You’ll fold before I do, baby.” Penny chuckles, scooping Frank into his arms, “Daddy always plays to win.”

Junior huffs loudly, stabbing a finger against the volume button on the remote-control, “Will you two give it a _rest_ , already? _Sheesh_. I’m trying to watch the stupid coyote.”


	4. The Third Trimester

**_1985_ **

The last few months of your pregnancy drift away at a leisurely pace. You’re due to give birth in January, and so you decide to take a leave of absence from work, starting in November, just to give you a little time to relax and to prepare for the arrival of the twins.

In the first week of your break, your sister and your friends throw a baby shower at your parents’ house, filling the lounge and kitchen with laughter, and presenting you with a mountain of gifts and cards. There is a cake, a strawberry and vanilla sponge baked by your mother, and you talk and play silly party-games until the last guests finally take their leave, and then you head home, leaving the opened gifts with your parents for now, just until you’ve finished tidying the house and decorating the nursery.

You can hear the clowns bickering as soon as you step over the threshold. You shake your head, smiling ruefully, and retreat into the kitchen, to drink tea and enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet. Frank leaps on to your lap, rubbing his head affectionately against the curve of your stomach, all ripe and round beneath the skirt of your jade-green maternity dress. You sit at the table, stirring your tea, running your fingers through the cat’s fur and listening to the loud curses and muffled thuds coming from upstairs.

“Fuck! That was my fucking _thumb_ , you klutz! Watch what you’re doing with that thing!”

“I was aimin’ for the nail, _moron_. Keep your ginormous thumbs out of the fucking way next time!”

You sigh, pushing your tea aside and nudging Frank away, realising that you’re not going to able to relax with all this commotion going on. Pressing a hand against the small of your back, where the muscles are taut and aching, you climb the stairs and peer around the door of the second bedroom, the _nursery_ , where the clowns are kneeling upon the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes, wooden slats, and sheets of plastic.

“What’s going on?”

Junior is sucking upon his thumb and scowling at Penny, who is wielding a hammer against a piece of pale wood, a nail swaying jauntily at the corner of his red mouth, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“We’re setting up the nursery for you.” Junior brightens considerably at the sight of you, moving across the room to wrap his long arms around your waist, “Thought we could finish painting at least, before you came home.”

“Oh. Well, that was… _sweet_ of you, I guess.” You cast a critical eye over the walls, which are splattered with wild strokes of wet paint, all different shades and colours. The largest wall is a mess, only half-finished, covered in drying streaks of red and blue, and the other walls are decorated with crude drawings of purple stick-figures and orange flowers. You muster a smile, patting at the tall clown’s elbow, and then you glance down at the mess of wood upon the floor, “And what’s this?”

Penny slides the nail from between his lips, rolling his eyes, “It’s the dresser you bought from that fucking catalogue. Been tryin’ to put it together for the best part of an hour. Fucking piece of shit.”

“Why didn’t you read the instructions?”

Penny lets out a growl, glaring up at the younger clown, who quickly sidles behind you, “Because Junior _ate_ the instructions.”

Junior whines, affecting a petulant tone, and fixes his wounded eyes upon the hammer in Penny’s fist, “And he keeps hitting me with that mallet-thingy. Look at my thumb, {y/n}. I think it’s _broken_.”

“For the last time, it was an _accident_ , you fucking goon. Not my fault that you’re incapable of holding a nail straight, is it?”

Struggling to maintain a straight face, you take Junior’s hand between yours, gently peeling the glove away from his thin fingers. He flinches dramatically, pouting like a sullen child, and you make a show of inspecting his thumb, clucking your tongue soothingly at the exaggerated wincing noises he produces for your benefit. You can feel Penny’s eyes upon you, burning with envy, and you repress a wicked smirk, savouring the small power rush that comes with this new game. Playing the clowns off against each other is risky, which is why you don’t do it very often, but the results are deliciously sweet.

“Oh, your poor thumb looks _sore_ , big guy.” You raise Junior’s hand to your mouth, allowing your breath to ghost across his skin, “You want me to kiss it better for you, hmm?”

The tall clown nods wordlessly, his amber eyes sweeping over your face, gleaming with feverish anticipation. You smile, parting your lips, and draw the tip of his thumb across your mouth, peppering soft kisses upon the bony pad. You keep your gaze fixed upon him the whole time, teasing him, and then you slide his thumb between your wet lips, curling your tongue around it, _sucking_ it, until he lets out a guttural rasp, slurring out something that might have been your name.

Junior’s free hand glides across your back, pushing you against his body, and you can feel the pulsating heat of his cock, caught flush between his pelvis and your distended stomach. Without warning, he hisses an obscenity and drags his thumb from your mouth, hooking his fingers into the neckline of your dress. He gives a sharp tug, tearing the soft material away from your body, revealing the plainness of your bra and panties, and the bare skin beneath.

_He just had to ruin the one and only item of maternity-wear that you actually like._

_The only thing in your wardrobe that looks good on you._

_Oh yeah, that’s fucking typical._

Junior growls, planting both hands upon your waist and hoisting you into his arms. He lifts you easily, despite the weight and unwieldiness of your pregnant body, and you curl your legs around his hips, sighing blissfully at the press of his cock beneath your buttocks.

“Bed.” He grunts the word, a demand rather than a question, and his fingers sink into your flesh, leaving bruises in their wake, “Bed, {y/n}. _Now_.”

You favour him with a weary smile, sliding your gaze over to Penny, whose eyes are alight with red fire, “You coming, Pen?”

Penny affects a startled expression, “Oh, so I’m invited too? How _gracious_ of you, babydoll. I was startin’ to think that it was a party for two.”

“Don’t be jealous.” You giggle, feeling light-headed in Junior’s arms. The tall clown is champing at the bit, shifting impatiently where he stands, but you manage to hold him in check, curling your fingers into the copper sweep of his hair. You shoot Penny a meaningful look, drawing some of his fire into your eyes, “It’s not a party without _you_ , Daddy.”

The older clown considers this for a moment, and then he chuckles, his ego placated, and reaches over to swat his hand across Junior’s backside, “Lead the way, brat.”

The younger clown strides along the corridor, carrying you into your own room, and deposits you upon the bed with a gentleness that surprises you, considering his agitated state. He sheds his clothing, rending the silken material of his clown-suit with those razor-sharp claws, and you quickly follow suit, stripping out of your underwear with unabashed zeal. Then, like an immense pale spider, he crawls across the mattress, covering your body with his gangling frame, and nestles his pelvis between the cradle of your thighs, grinding his massive length against your throbbing clit.

Penny curls beside you, whispering sweet profanities and lewd promises into your ear, his hands stroking across your breasts, teasing your nipples into sharp peaks beneath his fingers. Junior’s sharp hips stutter against you, his cock sliding over your folds. He’s panting like a dog, his tongue lolling out as he humps desperately at the air. Finally, Penny lets out a grunt of displeasure, reaching down to slap the younger clown’s knee, “Whoa, slow down there, kid! Take your fucking time! He glances down at you, making sure that you’re okay, and then he turns his attentions back to Junior, fixing him with a hard stare, “Look, just go easy on her, will ya? She’s _fragile_ , remember?”

Junior huffs loudly, coming to an abrupt halt over you, with the head of his monstrous cock resting heavily upon your mound. He takes a shuddering breath, shaking the tension from his body, and then he leans down to brush his lips across your cheek, almost apologetically. You smile reassuringly, granting him permission to start over, and he skims his hips against you, gliding effortlessly into your aching core. 

“That’s better.” Penny murmurs approvingly, curling his fingers into your hair, “You like that, baby?”

You nod weakly, your eyes rolling back into your head, your body already thrumming with painful pleasure. Being with Pen is like sliding into a warm bath, the way he teases and coddles your body, but Junior is an _inferno_ , scalding your skin with his heat; it fucking _hurts_ , even when he’s trying to be gentle. You _love_ it, though. You love the way he hurts you.

Junior holds himself above you, careful not to rest upon your stomach, the muscles in his forearms straining like whipcord as he ploughs into you, his sharp hips snapping between your parted thighs.

“ _Mine_.” He bares his fangs, ropes of drool oozing from his plump lips, splattering upon your face and your heaving breasts, “Say it, angel-cake. _Say it_.”

“Yours.” You breathe the word, curling your legs around his slender waist, “I’m yours.”

He comes undone, with a furious snarl, filling you with his seed. You mewl piteously, bucking against him, fighting for your own release, and Penny lets out a low growl, curling his fingers around Junior’s clenching jaw, “Hey. _Hey._ Finish her off, you ingrate.” The tall clown blinks, his eyes shifting from red to amber, and then he makes a soft noise in his throat, reaching between your thighs to graze his long fingers across your clit. It doesn’t take long before you’re squirming beneath his touch, your cunt clenching around his spent cock as you finally climax.

Junior moves away, humming appreciatively, and curls himself around your quivering body. His ridiculously long tongue unfurls, lapping at your sweat-slicked face. You wriggle against him, protesting in a shrill voice, but he holds you fast, gripping your hips between his hands. He slides his tongue over your cheek, and then down over your throat and breasts, coating your skin with saliva. When he reaches your midriff, he begins to _purr_ , licking across your stretched stomach, and you realise that he is _bathing_ you, like a tigress with her cub.

_Or an alien-clown-thing, with its pregnant mate._

_Maybe it’s just something they do._

_A show of affection, perhaps._

You’re not sure. You have very little knowledge of the ways of their kind. You know that they feed upon fear and human flesh, that they hibernate and lay eggs, and that they can shape-shift. But that’s it. Even after all this time, you have no idea what _they_ actually _are_ , or where they came from, despite Penny’s rare allusions to _the Macroverse_ and _Maturin_ and all the other strange things that your tiny human mind can’t possibly begin to comprehend.

_You don’t know anything about them, but you’re about to further their infernal species, to bring two more alien-clown-things into the world._

_Not for the first time, you question your sanity, and you curse yourself for being so weak, for allowing this to happen._

Penny chuckles raucously, startling you out of the doldrums of your mind, “Oho {y/n}, you must’ve been a _bad_ girl, because you’re gettin’ one helluva _tongue lashing_ there, aren’t ya?”

You groan, rolling your eyes at him. Junior is delving his tongue into your core, licking away the messy fusion of your juices and his own cum. His attentions bring a soft smile to your face and you sigh, reaching down to curl your fingers into his hair. He grunts enthusiastically, bringing his hands to your hips, rolling you over on to your stomach, and then he slides your cheeks apart, pushing his face between your thighs again, and tongues your cunt with broad strokes. You let out a muffled sigh, edging your legs apart and raising your ass into the air. 

Penny slides beneath you, caging his legs around your torso, and you press your burning cheek against his bare thigh, shuddering blissfully. He strokes your hair, murmuring softly, and then he reaches down to cup his fingers around your face, smiling down at your dazed expression, “Seein’ as Junior is busy down _there_ , how’s about you come and give Daddy some _sugar_ , babydoll?”

You manage a tremulous smile in response, tilting your chin up and puckering your lips, inviting him to kiss you. The clown smirks, tapping a finger against your nose, “Ah, ah. _Here_ , baby.” He curls a hand around the back of your skull, gently pushing your face against his crotch, and you grasp his shaft, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, “That’s right, doll. Take it, take it all the way in, like a good little slut.”

Junior is devouring your cunt, slurping noisily at your wetness, his claws dragging lightly across the soft curves of your hips, but he pulls away at the sound of Penny’s voice, peering curiously over your arched back. He lets out a strangled growl, his fingers tensing upon your upturned ass, “I want _that_.”

“You’ve already _had_ your turn, you greedy little fucker.” Penny rumbles, tugging lightly at your hair as you slide your mouth over his cock, “Besides, you’re too big. She’ll choke on that ugly thing.”

“I can make it _smaller_ , you know.” The tall clown scowls, folding his arms, “It would still be bigger than _yours_ , though.”

“Shut up, kid. You’re killin’ the mood.”

Later, you doze between the clowns for a little while, roused intermittently by the movements of your unborn children, shifting and rolling inside of you. The twins are an active pair, particularly in the evenings, and they’re on good form tonight. You watch the rippling flow of your stomach, grunting with mild discomfort when something jars against your ribcage, the taut skin there rising into a misshapen peak above the inwardly questing body-part.

“Quit it!” You giggle, brushing a hand against the small protuberance, until it skitters away from your tickling fingers, “Stop kicking me, you little terror!”

Junior prods at the bulge, tracing its vague outline, “Yeah, that’s definitely a foot.”

Another movement, lower this time, fluttering upon the underside of your distended abdomen. The other baby is awake, beating a lively tattoo against your womb. Penny chuckles at your aggrieved expression, stooping to press his red lips against the swell of your stomach. He ruffles your hair, smiling fondly, “You wanna take a bath, mama?”

_Mama?_

He’s never called you _that_ before.

You mouth the word, testing the feel of it, and he smirks knowingly, planting a kiss upon the curve of your jaw.

_Mama._

_You like it._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As your body becomes more cumbersome, blooming like a rose, you are less able to manipulate yourself into more exotic positions. The clowns are more than happy to facilitate you, contorting themselves around your ripening frame, with their hands constantly straying over your swollen breasts and stomach. The best hours of the day are spent in bed, nestled between them, on those lazy mornings and languid afternoons when there’s nothing else to do but _fuck_ , and they bless your skin with slow strokes and sweet kisses.

They’re getting better at taking turns, but you prefer it when they’re willing to share, when they stretch you out and fill your body, until you’re screaming their names, and you begin to lose any sense of where one ends and the other begins.

Afterwards, they curl against you, petting your hair and murmuring your name, until you fall asleep in their arms. You feel like a pampered kitten, cosseted and indulged, and you never want it to end.

_Well, that’s not strictly true, because you’re more than ready to give birth, to finally meet your babies, and to be free of the less pleasant aspects of pregnant life._

You’re constantly exhausted, aching and tearful, and you spend a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, relieving your apparently gnat-sized bladder. You want to be able to move again, to _breathe_ , to wear normal clothes. You want to paint your toenails, but you can’t reach over your bump, and you have to ask your sister to do it for you. Hell, you can’t even _see_ your feet now, let alone bend over.

“Yeah, I kinda miss that too, babydoll.” Penny smirks at your complaints, taking your foot between his hands to inspect your sister’s handiwork, “I miss bending you over my knee and tanning that sweet little ass. Oh, I’m gonna spank the _fuck_ outta you, once you’re all _mine_ again.”

You spend most days at home, or at the trailer, getting everything ready for the big day. With less than a month to go before your predicted due date, you’re starting to feel restless and distinctly unsettled. With your father’s help, you finish decorating the nursery, painting the walls in shades of green and sunny yellow, and shifting the furniture around over and over again, until you’re finally satisfied. The expensive double-stroller, a gift from your parents, is parked in the hallway, ready to go, and you’ve packed and repacked your hospital bag, filling it with tiny baby-grows and booties. You’ve taken a bunch of stuff over to the trailer too, clothes and diapers, stashed away in the closet.

“You’re nesting, mama.” Penny smiles wryly, lounging upon the mattress beside you, watching as you pair socks and fold muslin squares, “It’s _cute_.”

_Nesting._

_Yes._

You’re a bird, feathering your little nest, preparing for the arrival of your precious eggs.

_Only, you’re pretty certain that birds don’t have to suffer the indignities of swollen ankles and leaking tits._

One afternoon in mid-December, you turn up at the trailer in a particularly foul mood, leaking milk through your shirt and feeling thoroughly fed up with everything. Junior immediately strips you bare, sniffing furtively at your heavy breasts, and you recline upon the couch, with your head against his shoulder and your feet resting in Penny’s lap.

“I’ve had enough.” You grumble incessantly, drawing agitated circles across your stomach with your fingertips, “The midwife said there’s a chance that they might come early. It’s normal for twins, apparently. But I’ve got a feeling that we’re in it for the long-haul and I can’t _do_ this anymore. I’m so fucking _tired_.”

Penny curls his fingers around your ankles, massaging them gently, “You’ve done so well, babydoll. Just gotta hold out a little while longer.”

“I know.” You sigh, closing your eyes, lulled by the soothing motions of his hands, “I just want them _here_ , you know? I want them in my arms, safe and sound.”

Junior nuzzles against your hair, “Love that _smell_ , angel-cake. What _is_ it?”

You chuckle ruefully, “It’s the milk.” You lean back, exposing your dark-tipped breasts to his hungry graze, “You want a taste?”

_Stupid question._

He’s slithering from under you even before the words are out of your mouth, kneeling upon the floor beside the couch with a hand around your left teat, his long tongue curling around your nipple. He bows his head, stooping over your prone form, and draws the peak of your breast into his gaping maw. You murmur encouragement, carding your fingers through his coppery hair, your womb contracting in a primal response to the insistent latch of his mouth. You can _feel_ it there, in the cradle of your pelvis, and between your trembling thighs; a deep _pull_ , achingly sweet and raw.

Junior closes his teeth around your areola, dragging his rough tongue across your nipple, and he suckles there like a newborn babe, taking his fill. His eyes are rolling with pleasure, drifting greedily over your lust-slackened features. Finally, he releases you, allowing your breast to slide from his mouth with a wet _pop_ , and he swallows noisily, smacking his lips.

“Tastes like _sugar_.” Junior giggles, bouncing on his heels like a happy child, “Sugar tits. Want _more_.”

Penny rolls his eyes, swatting at the tall clown’s grasping fingers, “You’ve had enough, brat. Leave some for the offspring.” And then he smirks, sidling across the couch to ensnare you beneath his bulk, his hands gliding over your breasts, “Anyway, it’s _my_ turn. You wanna feed Daddy, babydoll? Yeah, I _know_ you do. C’mere…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, you head over to the library, hoping to pick up a book for your hospital bag. Nothing too heavy, just something to keep you entertained and to stave off the inevitable boredom of the maternity ward. You’re not expecting to have much time for reading, not with newborn twins to occupy your every waking moment, but you know that you’ll regret not having brought something to read, when the babies are dozing after a night-feed and you can’t sleep.

You waddle inside, clutching your winter coat tightly around your body, a flurry of light snow drifting in with you, melting upon your hair and shoulders. The library is quiet, all but deserted, and you figure that the seasonable cold snap has driven most of the regulars into the local bars. You can’t say that you blame them; a sly nip of brandy is definitely preferable to the drafty halls of the public library, that’s for sure.

_The welcoming committee is probably a damn sight warmer, too._

Mike Hanlon glances up at you, his dark eyes narrowing, and you shiver desperately, feeling your blood turn to ice in your veins.

The head librarian has been absent from Derry for most of your pregnancy. Compassionate leave, for health reasons. Living in this shitty town has aged him, as it ages everyone, and the extended vacation should have done him some good, but he looks worse than ever, in your opinion. His pleasant face is haggard, as though he hasn’t slept in months, and his hair is greying, more salt than pepper now.

You step gingerly across the foyer, mustering a tentative smile, “It’s nice to have you back, Mr Hanlon.”

He stands, moving around the desk, and falters to an abrupt halt within a few paces of you, as though he daren’t come any closer. His gaze shifts over your body, his voice ringing with fear and disbelief, when he finally rallies enough strength to speak, “What have you _done_ , {y/n}?”

You stare at the tiled floor, shielding yourself from the accusing brightness of his eyes, your hands dropping to the swell of your stomach.

“I knew it.” Mike Hanlon shakes his head, his lips curling into a sad mockery of a smile, “I _knew_ it. I told you to keep your head down, didn’t I? To stay _safe_ , to stay away from him…from _IT_. And now you’re _pregnant_ , with IT’s _spawn_ , ready to unleash a shit-ton of fresh hell on this _fucking_ town.” He moves to stand before you, dropping his hands upon your shoulders. His touch is heavy, unbearably so, but his eyes are softening now, and his voice is almost gentle. Somehow, his kindness makes it worse, and you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. He gives you a little shake, his fingers tensing against your shoulders, “What the _fuck_ , {y/n}?”

You force steel into your spine, raising your eyes to his taut face, “I made a mistake. I fucked up, yeah? But I’m keeping my babies, Mr Hanlon. I’m going to raise them to be good, to be _human_ , and you’re not going to stop me.”

“Babies?” Mike Hanlon closes his eyes, “As in, more than one?”

“Twins.”

“Oh, this day just keep getting better and better, doesn’t it?” He lets out a rough sigh, releasing his hold upon you, and then he takes a step back, staring apprehensively at your swollen abdomen, “You’re choosing to keep them, knowing what they could become? How many people are you putting at risk, {y/n}?”

_You’ve asked yourself these questions, over and over again, in the darkest watches of the night._

_What if you’re wrong? What if they’re monsters?_

_How many parents will grieve, how many children will die, because you made the decision to let your own children live? How can you possibly justify it?_

You take a deep breath, parting the layers of your coat, exposing your ripening body to him, “They’re not dangerous, Mr Hanlon. _Mike._ Don’t ask me how I know, I just _do_. I know it in my bones.”

_It’s true._

_You can’t explain it._

_It’s just a feeling, the faintest glimmer in your heart, but it’s real._

Mike Hanlon turns away from the sight of your bloated shape, shuddering visibly under the harsh lights. He looks as though he is about to vomit, but then he lets out a ragged sigh, moving to lean unsteadily against his desk. You close your coat, wrapping your arms across your bump, and he seems to breathe a little easier, “Well, it’s done now. I don’t blame you, {y/n}. It’s not your fault.” He smiles weakly, his eyes glistening with some deep emotion, “I just hope that you’re right. For all our sakes.”

When you eventually head out into the snow-filled night, with a copy of _Jaws_ tucked into your purse, you aren’t surprised to find the clowns waiting for you. Junior takes your purse, swinging it from one gloved hand, and they link their arms with yours, supporting your graceless form between them.

“Thought we’d walk you home, mama.” Penny whistles a festive tune, skirting you around a patch of black ice “Don’t like the thought of you wanderin’ the streets by yourself, not when it’s so cold and dark, and you’re just about ready to pop.”

You huff indignantly, blinking snowflakes from your lashes, “I’m perfectly capable of walking home from the library on my own, thank you very much.”

“I know, babydoll.” He chuckles, patting your hand, “Look, just humour me, will ya?”

Sighing, you allow them to escort you home and into bed, exhausted and completely resigned to your fate.

_Only three more weeks to go._


	5. The Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for gratuitous child birth.
> 
> Don't try this at home, kids.

_**1986** _

On January seventh, you spend the early hours of the evening squatting upon a mattress, in the small bedroom of the trailer, straining with every modicum of strength left in your weary body to bring your children into the world, at long last.

A few days before, when you had gone into the hospital for a final scan, the midwife had informed you that she was planning to book you into the maternity ward within the next week, for a medical induction. You had expected this, having already talked through your options with the midwife, but even so, you had been mildly surprised at this sudden decision, “But isn’t it too early? I’m not quite thirty-eight weeks yet.”

She had smiled reassuringly, “You’re close enough to full term, {y/n}. This is your first pregnancy and you’re having twins; believe me, it’ll go easier for you if we start sooner rather than later. And you really don’t want to go into labour at home, on your own. Not under these circumstances.”

_Yeah, no shit._

You’ve been nervous enough without thinking about the _pain_ , about everything that could go wrong, especially if you were to be caught unawares and couldn’t make it to the hospital, for whatever reason. Still, you figure that you can start to take it easy, now that a date has finally been set; January ninth, the day of reckoning. At home, you repack your hospital bag again, and you take a duplicate bag over to the trailer, just to be safe. To your horror, you start to feel increasingly drawn to the sewer system, although you manage to resist whatever force is urging you to starting nesting down _there_ ; the trailer is one thing, but you draw the line at giving birth in the sewers, amidst grey water and human excrement.

Trying to keep busy, you make a plan of action with your parents and your sister, over dinner at their house. Your father has agreed to drive you to the hospital, and to feed Frank in your absence, and your mother is overjoyed when you ask her to be your birthing partner, with your sister as back-up.

“It’s just a shame that the father won’t be there.” Your mother sighs, handing you a mug of hot chocolate, “He should be there for you, sweetheart. He should be your birthing partner, not me.”

You shrug, repressing a secretive smile, “It’s fine, mom. I’d rather have you in there with me than anyone else.”

_That’s not strictly true, of course._

_The clowns have already given you their assurances that they will be there, invisible to all eyes but yours, and you know that no force in this universe could keep them away._

On the morning of January seventh, you head over to the trailer, planning to spend a quiet day with the clowns. You want to make the most of these last few days of freedom, before the babies arrive, and you’ve come prepared, with various snacks and Pacman, and the hamper of fancy toiletries given to you by one of your friends, as a Christmas present. You’re going to give your body a much needed pampering session, before the birth; face mask, pedicure, moisturiser, the _works_.

The trailer is deserted when you arrive, so you make a pot of tea and turn on the radio, bopping shamelessly around the kitchenette to Starship and Lionel Richie. You take a shower out back, lathering your hair and shivering deliciously at the stark contrast of the varying temperatures upon your naked skin. The water is hot, steam rising from the stuttering jets, but there is a definite chill upon the air, and your breath plumes like cigar-smoke, rising and fading away before your eyes. Scrubbed clean, with a towel wrapped around your damp hair, you pad into the trailer and slide into the vacant La-Z-Boy, in front of the mirror, with various toiletries scattered upon the foot-rest beside you.

Nodding along to the radio, you massage citrus-scented lotions into your limbs, and then you cover your face with an exfoliating mask, before preparing the finishing touch; two fresh cucumber slices, which you place over your eyes, even as you snort at the ridiculousness of it all. Your sister had told you that doing this would help to relieve the puffiness of your skin, and the dark circles beneath your eyes, but you were loudly sceptical of her claims. Still, you can’t deny that it feels rather good, despite your initial misgivings. The coolness of the vegetable upon your eyelids seems to ease the prickling tension within your sinuses, and you let out a happy murmur, sinking into the depths of the La-Z-Boy.

You must have fallen asleep, lulled by the gentle rippling motions of your stomach, and you awaken in Penny’s arms, as he carries you into the bedroom and sets you upon the mattress. He smiles, pressing a gloved finger against your parted lips when you try to speak, “Go back to sleep, babydoll. Don’t worry, I already washed that gunk off your face. Junior ate the cucumbers.”

“Ugh. They were _gross_.” The younger clown pipes up from the other room, his disgusted tone making you chuckle, and then he peers around the door, his amber eyes glowing in the dim afternoon sunlight, “Are you tired, angel-cake?”

You nod wearily, curling beneath the covers, “I think I’m gonna take a nap. Will you wake me up before it gets dark?”

Penny ruffles your hair, “Get some rest, mama. We’ll be right here, if you need anything.” He ushers Junior from the room, closing the door behind them, and you bury your face into the pillow, sighing heavily. Your hands drift over the swell of your stomach, tracing soft lines across your stretched skin, and you close your eyes, allowing sleep to claim you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Pain._

You’re caught in the throes of a dream, a _nightmare_ , and all is darkness, all is _pain_ , and you can’t get away, you can’t _escape_ , and a ragged scream is filling your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth, shrill and piercing in the stillness.

_Wake up, {y/n}! Wake up!_

Your eyes fly open, wide and rolling, and you’re still screaming, your limbs entangled within the sweat-slicked covers, your fingers tensing against the underside of your distended abdomen.

The pain is _real_ , it’s real and it fucking _hurts_ , like an iron fist clenching sharply around your body, and then it ebbs away, leaving you sobbing and retching, curling into a tight ball upon your side. The door opens, flooding the room with harsh light, and Penny slides the covers from your stricken form, his white face twisted with some unfamiliar emotion.

_Fear._

You’ve never seen him like this before, and it _terrifies_ you, even as a fresh wave of nauseating pain suddenly washes over you, stealing the breath from your lungs. You whimper, clutching at your stomach, and Penny climbs on to the mattress, the fear in his blue eyes slowly giving way, to be replaced with a steely brightness that strengthens your flagging heart.

“Where does it hurt, baby? Talk to me, {y/n}.”

“ _Everywhere_.” You force the words out, through gritted teeth, groaning with each syllable, “Oh shit, Pen. It fucking _hurts_.”

He places his hands over yours, rubbing circles over your midriff, “What does it feel like?”

The pains are fading again, allowing you to speak without hesitation, “Like I’ve eaten an ice-cream sundae too quickly, only a million times worse. You know what I mean?”

He smiles faintly, reaching up to stroke his fingers through your tousled hair, “Brain freeze?”

“Yeah.” You shift slightly, curling weakly against him, “I can feel it here, across my stomach, and in my back. It comes and goes…”

Right on cue, the pains begin to resurface, sending a violent spasm through your body, and you throw back your head, hissing obscenities into the air. The searing ache around your back is building to an almost unbearable intensity, and you arch against it, biting down upon your lip until you taste blood in your mouth. Penny moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, crooning soft words of encouragement against the nape of your neck.

“Hold on, babydoll. Hold my hand and breathe, just _breathe_ , in and out, nice and easy. That’s it, baby.”

The pains _{the contractions, the birthing pangs}_ are getting stronger and more frequent, and you try to count the minutes in between, but you can’t seem to focus. You feel strangely numb, as though you are groping stupidly through a thick fog, and only the pain brings you out of it, forcing you back into your writhing body. You clutch Penny’s hand, squeezing tight, your breath coming in shallow pants.

“You’re gonna break my fingers, babydoll.” The clown winces, cursing as another contraction wracks your quivering frame, but he does not attempt to extricate his hand from yours. He moves his free hand to your shoulder, pulling you against him, supporting your weight from behind, “You okay?”

You shake your head, blowing like a winded horse, “I think… _oh shit_ …I think it’s _time_ , Pen. I think the babies are coming.” You pull away, sliding from the mattress, your knees buckling, “We have to go, right _now_. I have to get to the hospital…”

A red tide of new agony blossoms through your womb, bringing a scream to your lips, and then it _snaps_ , like a string pulled taut, and something _warm_ and _wet_ bursts between your thighs, splashing upon the floor. You stare at the puddle forming between your feet, your voice raising to a panicked yelp, “My waters have broken!”

Penny manhandles you back on to the mattress, holding you flush against his chest, with your thighs spread open. He massages your aching stomach, whispering into your ear, “Calm down, {y/n}. Relax and _breathe_ , babydoll. I’m here with you, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I have to _go_ , Pen.” You whimper, bracing yourself against another contraction, “I can’t do this. Not here. I have to go… _fuck_ …to the hospital…”

He presses his lips against your clenched jaw, “It’s too late for that, mama. You’re already pushing. I can _feel_ it.” You shake your head, keening wildly, but he’s right. There is a sudden pressure between your legs, building relentlessly, and you can’t help but give into it, straining through your back and buttocks. “You don’t wanna give birth at the side of the road, do ya? Or in the parking lot?”

“But I _can’t_ …”

The clown growls, grasping your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look into his eyes, “You _can_ , {y/n}. I _know_ you can. I’ve been on this shit-stain of a planet for thousands of years, since before your species was anythin’ more than another ingredient in the fucking primordial soup, and I’ve never met _anyone_ like you. You’re one of a kind.” He releases his grip, his blue eyes softening, and he smiles, tracing a finger over your gaping mouth, “You’ve _got_ this, baby.”

He’s exaggerating of course, but his words jolt you from your helplessness, filling you with courage and determination.   

_Yes, you can do this._

_You can do anything, for him._

Without a word, you crouch forward, shifting on to all-fours, your limbs trembling beneath your weight. The pain is diminishing, the contractions waning, but the pressure is an unyielding force within your pelvis, urging your body to push against it, to push _down_. And there is something _there_ , coming closer with each push. You reach down, fumbling desperately at your engorged cunt, and Pen moves behind you, probing gently between your legs.

“Oho, you’re wide open, {y/n}.” His voice is triumphant, swelling with pride, and he gives your ass an encouraging pat, “Yeah, I can _see_ it. I can see the head.”

You heave yourself into a squatting position, bearing down, grunting and sweating, your inner muscles _burning_ against the impossible pressure.

“ _Push_ , babydoll. C’mon, keep goin’…”

The door slams open and Junior slinks into the room, purring like an overgrown cat, his wild eyes boring holes into the lines of your labouring body. You twist to the side, snarling over your shoulder at him, bracing your hands against the walls when the urge to push overwhelms you once again.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?”

Penny chuckles ruefully, “I beat him at Pacman three times in a row, so he pitched a fit and took off.”

“I did not pitch a fit, you old liar.” Junior rounds upon him, scowling indignantly, “I was bored and _hungry_ , so I went hunting.”

“Pull the other one, kid. It’s got bells on it.”

You let out a furious grunt, spewing profanities, “Look, I don’t fucking care, just get over here!”

The tall clown crosses the room in two long strides, vaulting on to the mattress, his gaze locked firmly upon the unfurling motions of your cunt. He wipes a long hand over his face, shaking his head back and forth, his expression reminiscent of a lost child, “Do you think that we should go to the hospital now?”

You roar an obscenity, slamming a fist against the wall, and the burning sensation between your thighs becomes a _white-hot_ glare, brighter than the sun and _searing_ in its intensity. The clowns breathe your name in unison, the sound rippling though you, like a soft breeze. Penny moves to kneel between your legs, and then something is _sliding_ out of you, dropping into his hands with a wet _plop_.

A mewling cry fills the air, high-pitched and vaguely kittenish, sending a jolt of frantic joy into your pounding heart. Shuddering violently, you try to move, desperate for a glimpse of the baby, but your body is trembling again, straining to deliver the second child. Resisting the urge to turn around, even as your blood sings with the primal yearning of a mother for her child, you plant your hands upon the wall and _push_ , with your last ounce of strength, fighting against exhaustion and the threat of collapse.

Junior moves behind you, grasping your waist, his warm breath ghosting against your hair, “So close, {y/n}. You’re so _close_ , pet, and you’ve done so _well_ …” You let out a guttural cry, pushing so hard that you almost black-out, your teeth sinking into your tongue. Murmuring softly, he cups his long fingers around your swollen cunt, cradling the crowning head against his palm as it slips from your body, into his waiting hands.

And then you’re falling, _drowning_ , and Penny curls his arms around you, covering your clammy face with light kisses. You’re shaking, drenched in sweat, and your thighs are slick with blood, but you muster a weary smile for him, “I did it, Daddy.”

The clown chuckles, rubbing the tip of his red nose against your cheek, “You sure did, mama.” He settles you against the pillows, pressing another kiss upon your furrowed brow, and then he nudges you gently, directing your attention to Junior, who is sitting cross-legged in front of you, with two strange little creatures nestled against his chest. 

You let out a hoarse sob, your arms opening to him, stretching out to claim your babies. He immediately gives them up, relinquishing their fragile bodies into your care, and you devour them with your eyes, scarcely aware of the hot tears coursing across your cheeks, cutting wet lines through the sweat and the grime.

The babies, _your_ babies, are absolutely _flawless_ , just as you knew they would be.

_A girl and a boy, small but well-formed, with misty eyes and scrunched-up faces, like every other human baby you’ve ever seen. They're still attached to you, the pulsating lengths of veiny placenta running from their bodies into yours, binding the three of you together._

_The babies seem to know who you are, snuffling up at you, their tiny fists clenched as they wail furiously, hungry for milk and affection._

Moving with graceful instinct, you shift into a more comfortable position, and then you curl your fingers around the peak of one breast, rubbing the nipple against the girl’s questing mouth. She latches on, suckling greedily, her legs kicking lustily against your side. You do the same for the boy, wincing at the fiery ache, and then, when both infants are feeding, you finally raise your gaze, smiling shyly at the clowns, who have watched the entire scene in silence, like a pair of statues, their hungry eyes never leaving your face. They come alive with your smile, edging over to sit beside you, one on either side. You sigh blissfully, gazing down at the twins, at your daughter and your son.

_Your babies._

“They’re perfect, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” Junior grins, flashing those buck-teeth, and coils a hand around the boy’s tiny foot, “Absolutely perfect.”

“Beautiful.” Penny strokes a finger across the girl’s downy cheek, crooning softly, and then he favours you with a smile that melts you to the core, “Just like their mama.”


	6. The First Six Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extracts from your first year of motherhood. 1986, January to June, approx 200-1000 words per month.
> 
> {Geez. I'm honestly so sorry about the shit quality of this chapter, and this entry in general, but I was running out of steam and I just really wanted to finish it for you all. Sorry!}

_**1986**_

_**January** _

The days following the arrival of the twins are a hectic blur. You don’t remember much of that first night and, when you try to replay those precious moments in your mind, all you can conjure is a haze of mingled pain and _joy_.

Back at the trailer, you had delivered the afterbirth, which Junior had promptly eaten, and then you had passed out, dizzy from blood-loss and exhaustion. When you finally woke, you were in the hospital, scrubbed clean and hooked up to an IV drip. Your parents were sitting at your bedside, their faces taut with concern, and they had taken you into their arms, kissing you and smoothing your rumpled hair.

And then a sudden thrill of desperate _panic_ had gripped you, the empty void of your stomach blaring like a car alarm, and you had slipped from the bed, ignoring your mother’s protests. The twins were dozing in a cot at the end of the bed, curled around each other, as though they were still drifting in the waters of your womb. You had watched them sleep for more than an hour, a relieved smile brightening your features, and then the midwife had looked in on you, to reassure you that all was well and that you could go home tomorrow morning.

At home, once those early visits from family and friends have petered out, you fall into a vague routine of early mornings, afternoon strolls, and night-feeds. It’s hard work, but you really wouldn’t change it for the world, despite the sleepless nights and the relentless diaper changes.

Penny and Junior spend most days at your house, surprising you with their enthusiasm. Despite your initial misgivings, the clowns are an absolute godsend, and there are times when you’re certain that you couldn’t cope without their help. Three weeks after giving birth, you express some of your breast-milk into bottles, using a handheld pump, and you show Penny and Junior how to feed the twins, eager for them to take on the night shifts so that you can get some rest. Despite their predatory instincts, the clowns seem genuinely enthralled with their offspring, much to your relief.

One evening, once the babies have been fed and changed, you sprawl out upon the bed, nestling into Penny’s arms. Your daughter is curled across your lap, snuffling in her sleep, and your son is lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, cooing at Junior, who is dangling a toy over the infant’s plump face.

“You thought about names yet, mama?” Penny rumbles, combing his fingers through your hair, “We can’t keep callin’ them _twin one_ and _twin two_ , you know.”

You’ve thought of little else over the last week or so, pouring over the book of baby names that your sister had given you. You have singled out two favourites so far, _Robert_ and _Penelope_ , but you’re curious to hear what the clowns will have to say about it.

“Ugh. Human names all sound the same to me.” Junior flings the toy aside, leaning forward to blow a raspberry upon your son’s round stomach, “How about _Pennywise_ , for both of them? Keep it nice and traditional.”

Penny rolls his eyes, “Not gonna happen, kid.” Your daughter squirms upon your lap, letting out a disgruntled whimper. He runs a hand across her back, crooning softly until she quietens beneath his touch, “Penelope has a nice ring to it. Little Penny.” He chuckles, favouring you with a wry smile, “Penny and Bobby, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You return his smile whole-heartedly, pleased by the nicknames, “I like it.”

* * *

 

**_February_ **

A month after the birth, you’re finally starting to get the hang of things, and the twins are thriving, growing and changing every day, before your very eyes. They have showed no signs of being anything other than completely _human_ , but you keep a close eye on them anyway, watching for the slightest hint of _strangeness_.

Your suspicions are confirmed in mid-February. You’re at the trailer, reclining upon the couch with a magazine open upon your lap, and the twins are dozing in the bedroom, curled up in the little bassinet you had brought over from your house. Penny is outside, smoking a cigar, but he suddenly reappears, looking mildly agitated, “Bobby’s hungry.”

“He’s asleep.” You close the magazine, frowning at him, “They’re both asleep, Pen. I haven’t heard a peep out of either of them since I put them down for a nap.” The clown ignores you, slinking into the bedroom. You follow, sighing with exasperation, and you peer over the side of the basket, smiling at the sleeping babies tucked safely within its wicker frame. You slide your gaze across to Penny, shaking your head, “See? He’s fine.”

Penny takes your arm, leading you back into the other room, “His body mustn’t have caught up with his mind, that’s all. He’ll be awake in a minute or two, you’ll see.”

You let out an exasperated huff, “Okay, you’ve lost me, Pen. What are you talking about?”

A thin wail echoes out from behind you. Bobby's awake, tossing and turning, his eyes screwed up as he snuffles the air. 

You lift the squalling infant from the bassinet, murmuring softly to comfort him, and then you climb on to the mattress, unbuttoning your shirt to grant him access to your leaking nipple. He latches on, grunting contentedly, and you run your fingers through his wispy hair, rocking him back and forth.

Penny leans against the door frame, looking decidedly smug, “Oh yeah, he’s not hungry at _all_ , is he?”

“How did you know?”

The clown perches upon the edge of the mattress, smiling down at the suckling infant, “He told me. _Want milk, papa._ Came right out with it, clear as day. He’s a good little talker, our boy.”

You gape at him, delight and disbelief warring in your wide eyes, “What do you mean, he _told_ you? He spoke? Like, actual words?”

Penny rolls his eyes, evidently unimpressed by your ignorance, “ _Telepathy_ , babydoll. He’s not all human, remember?”

“So, you can communicate with them, using your mind?”

“We share a mental link. Me and the little ones, and Junior. The babies don’t have much to say, though. Not _yet_ anyway. It’s mostly just babbling, or askin’ for food, or a fresh diaper.” He chuckles, favouring you with a wicked smirk, Come to think of it, Junior’s not much better. Not a great conversationalist, that one.”

You quietly ponder this new development, gently curling your fingers around Bobby’s tiny wrist, “So, how long have you been able to do this? With the babies, I mean? Could you hear them when they were still inside of me?”

Penny shrugs, his blue eyes narrowing, “Does it matter? You’re not upset about it, are ya?”

“No, I guess not.” You sigh heavily, resting your head upon his shoulder, “I just wish that I could have the same kind of connection with them, that’s all.

The clown nuzzles against your hair, his voice low and reassuring, “You’re their _mother_ , babydoll. You don’t have to able to read their minds to find out what they need. You just _know_ , and that’s a real special thing, sweetheart. That’s a bond for life.” You sigh again, softly this time, smiling up at him. He taps a gloved finger against your nose, and then he frowns, his gaze shifting to the bassinet, “I think someone’s gonna need a diaper change, {y/n}.”

Right on cue, there is a loud _brrrap_ , and a familiar smell fills the room, heavy and pungent. Having thoroughly soiled her diaper, little Penny starts to cry, her distressed movements rocking the bassinet.

“It’s your turn.” You favour Penny with a bright smile, “Hop to it, clown.”

“How come I always get the shitty jobs around here?” He groans, sliding from the mattress and padding over to the bassinet, “It’s because I live in the sewers, isn’t it?”

* * *

 

**_March_ **

Date night.

It’s the first evening you’ve spent alone with Penny since the twins were born, and you’re determined to make the most of it. Bobby and little Penny have been packed off to your parents, to have their first sleepover with grandpa and grandma, and you’re over at the trailer, curled up on Penny’s lap in the La-Z-Boy, stripped to the skin.

“Just like old times, babydoll.” He chuckles lasciviously, running his hands across the curve of your back, “Oho, Daddy’s been lookin’ forward to _this_.”

So have you, but you’re a little nervous, truth be told. You haven’t had sex since giving birth, following the midwife’s advice to take it easy for at least eight weeks. The clowns have been remarkably patient, allowing you to pleasure them with your hands and mouth instead, when you’ve offered it, but you’re craving the real thing and you’re ready to give it a shot.

Penny slides a thumb between your wet folds, teasing at your clit, and he smiles when you moan above him, rolling your hips into his touch. He crooks a finger against your core, pushing the tip into you with gentle precision. You flinch instinctively, feeling your inner muscles stiffen and quail against the invasion, fighting the urge to compress his wrist between your thighs. He waits, giving you time to adjust, and then he slips another digit into you, slowly fingering your walls open, in preparation for his cock.

“You ready, baby?” The clown brushes his red lips against the lines of your throat, humming appreciatively at your little gasps of pleasure, “You ready for me?”

_Now or never, {y/n}._

You nod uncertainly, catching your lip between your teeth, and he removes his fingers, keeping a steady pressure upon your clit with his thumb. He shifts beneath you, wrapping his free hand around the base of his cock, positioning the thick head against your slick opening, “Take your time, mama. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You press down without hesitation, before you lose your nerve.

_It’s kinda like having to remove a band aid, when it’s been there for a while and the adhesive strip is sticking to the fine hairs upon your skin; the quicker you do it, the less it hurts._

He breeches you, sliding into your warmth, and you let out a strangled _hiss_ , pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Your muscles are screaming, burning like _fire_ , and it fucking _hurts_. You blink away hot tears, whimpering piteously at the raw sting of his length inside of your cunt.  

Penny pulls out of you, grunting loudly, and draws a soothing hand across your quivering buttocks, “You okay, {y/n}”

You shake your head, your voice small and muffled, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Don’t be silly, babydoll.” Penny frowns, giving your ass a light slap, “You gotta give it time, that’s all.” He plants his hands upon your shoulders, pulling you away from him, and then he reaches up to wipe the tears away from your damp cheeks, “We can still have fun, baby. We just gotta think outside of the _box_ , yeah?”

“Yeah.” You manage a watery smile, “Do you want to fuck my mouth?”  

“That’s my girl. You’re a champ, aren’t ya?” Penny smirks, tweaking your nose playfully, “But I’ve been dreamin’ of that sweet little ass of yours, babydoll.” He chuckles, rutting against you, grinding his length against your sensitive clit, “And I think it’s high-time that you took a ride on Daddy’s cock, don’t you? Open your mouth, baby.”

He slips his fingers between your parted lips, swirling them against your tongue until they’re lathered with saliva, and then he reaches down to spread your buttocks, pressing against your puckered hole. His free hand drops between your thighs, toying with your cunt, “Rub yourself on my fingers, baby. Yeah, that’s it…”

You grind against his cupped palm, moaning at the sweet friction against your clit, and he pushes his slick fingers into your anus, stretching you wide. Finally, after an eternity of teasing, he replaces his fingers with his cock, sliding slowly into your tight heat, fucking you open with deep thrusts.

“Move that pretty ass, mama. Oh, you’re makin’ Daddy feel so _good_ , sweet thing.” Penny growls, dragging his tongue over the lines of your clavicle, “You like ridin’ my dick, don’t ya?”

“ _Yesss_.” You let out a shuddering gasp, clenching around his thickness, bouncing wildly as you glide your pussy against his open hand, “I _love_ it, Daddy. I love _you_.”

The clown chuckles, swatting your ass, “Show me, baby. Show me how much you love me.” He fucks into you, hard and fast, his razor-sharp claws sinking into your tender flesh, “Cum for me, {y/n}. Cum for ol’ Pennywise, like a good little slut.”

You obey, screaming out his name as you topple over the edge, drenching his fingers with your juices. You couldn’t have held back, even without his permission. Snarling with pleasure, he plants both hands upon your waist, moving you up and down upon his cock, like a living sex-doll.

“Gonna fill your ass, babydoll.” He drills into you relentlessly, chasing his own release, “You ready?”

Growling your name, he arches against you, his cock pulsating within the trembling vice of your anus, spewing hot jets of cum into your bowels and then he pulls out, shooting the last dregs across the swell of your up-turned buttocks. You gasp weakly, still shuddering out the fitful strains of your climax, and he pulls you down to him, covering your face with sloppy kisses. You stay like that for an age, curled against his chest, as he strokes your hair and whispers sweet obscenities into your ear.

There’s nowhere you’d rather be, not in the whole wide world.

* * *

 

**_April_ **

In April, the weather takes a pleasant turn, despite the seasonal storms and showers. It’s warm, almost balmy, and you spend more time outside, sunning yourself upon the grass, in front of the trailer. You spread out a picnic blanket, dozing there with the twins, beneath an old parasol.

You’re wearing _skirts_ again, and shorts and vests, much to the delight of the clowns, who revel in the exposure of your skin. They’re constantly crowding you, touching you, and you bask under their hands, allowing them to explore the planes and curves of your transformed shape. Junior sinks his fingers into the softness of your stomach, tracing the faded stretchmarks which ripple over your midriff, like pale tiger-stripes.

“You’re all _squishy_ here, angel-cake.” He giggles, pawing at your empty folds, “I _like_ it.”

“Ugh.” You pull away, grasping at the hem of your vest, tugging it over your body, “Well I _don’t_ like it. I feel all saggy and gross.”

“Lighten up, babydoll.” Penny smirks, reaching across to squeeze your breast, “ _Honk honk_.”

“Hey!” You swat at his hand, struggling to repress a smile, “Not in front of the children, please.”

The babies snooze in the shade, undisturbed by their fathers’ antics. Bobby is curled on his side, wearing a lime-green babygrow, his copper hair combed neatly to one side. He’s a voracious little pup, forever glutting himself on your milk, and it shows, in the plumpness of his face and his limbs. He’s also the quieter of the two, content to doze upon your chest for hours, whilst his older sister is noisy and demanding, even in the throes of sleep. Dressed in a bright lemon babygrow, little Penny is grumbling, rolling back and forth across the blanket, chasing fragments of a dream. She’s leaner than her brother, and less greedy, and her hair is a darker shade of red, curling at the back and the sides. Mostly, they look like you, like those old photos of you as a baby; they have your skin-tone, and your nose and chin, underneath the puppy-fat.

Penny follows your gaze, smiling fondly at the goofy expression on your face. He sighs, curling a hand into your hair, “They’re something else, aren’t they? Precious little things.”

You chuckle ruefully, “I like them better when they’re asleep.”

“Wouldn’t mind havin’ a few more ‘round the place.” He grins at your horrified expression, holding up his hands to placate you, “I take it that’s a _no_ , then?”

“Never again, you bastard.”

 

* * *

 

**_May_ **

The twins are four months old when you next run into Mike Hanlon. You’re grocery shopping, struggling to manoeuvre the heavy double-stroller around the market on your own, and Bobby is playing up, grizzling for his lunch.

“Just let mama pay for this, sweetheart.” You reach down to adjust his blanket, clicking your tongue, “Geez, you’re so greedy.”

“What do you feed ‘em?”

You raise your eyes, surprised to see the librarian standing before you, his dark eyes trained upon the tiny occupants of the stroller. You muster a smile, resisting the urge to drop your groceries and make a run for it, “A whole lot of milk, mostly. They had their first taste of baby food last week, but they weren’t very impressed with it.”

Mike Hanlon chuckles, “Can’t say I blame them.” He trails off, shifting awkwardly beneath your gaze, and the silence draws out between you, until Bobby starts grumbling again, waving his mitted fists in the air. You shoot the librarian an apologetic look, stooping to lift your son into your arms, and then you lift your shirt and unclip your bra, exposing your heavy breast to Bobby’s questing mouth. Mike Hanlon averts his eyes from the nursing child, turning his attentions to little Penny, who favours him with a gummy smile.

“Hey there.” The man hunkers down in front of the stroller, peering at the beaming infant, “You’re a cutie-pie, aren’t you?” He falls silent, his eyes narrowing, searching for something _evil_ in your daughter’s innocent face and failing to find it, “To look at them, you’d never imagine that they were spawned by monsters, would you?”

You flinch, cradling your hand around Bobby’s head, “They’re _perfect_ , Mr Hanlon, just like I said they would be. Perfect and _human_.”

“Yeah.” The librarian rises, wincing at the stiffness of his joints, “I guess so.” He rubs a hand over his furrowed brow, “I didn’t mean to offend you, {y/n}.”

“I know.” You nod wearily, “Take care of yourself, Mike.”

He smiles ruefully, already turning away, “Easier said than done, in this town. See you around, kid.”

You finish your errands and hurry home, taking refuge in bed, under the covers with Frank and your babies. You wish that you could stay here forever, safe and sound, far away from the prying eyes of the world outside. It’s going to be hard to go back to work next month, knowing that you won’t be around to watch over the twins every moment of the day. They’ll be in good hands with your mother, but you’d feel better if you could always keep them with you, to protect and shelter them.

_Hibernation._

The word comes unbidden, coiling through your exhausted mind like smoke, and you recoil from it, burying your face into the pillow. You can’t avoid it, though. You have to face up to the realisation that you’ll have to do this alone, without the clowns to support you. Someday, sooner rather than later, they will retreat to the sewers, to rest for twenty seven years, and you’ll be left behind, to raise their children on your own.

Later, when Penny and Junior finally show their faces, you cling to them desperately, sobbing wordlessly in their arms, until you finally drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

* * *

 

**_June_ **

It’s a warm evening in mid-June and the twins are sleeping, snuffling softly in their crib, at the far end of the trailer. You’re lying upon the mattress, nestled snugly between two warm bodies, moaning sweetly beneath the cunning ministrations of two pairs of gloved hands, your skin aglow with pleasure.

Your body is completely healed now, and the two clowns fuck you open with lazy strokes, front and back, until they’ve completely _ruined_ you, and then they curl around your limp frame, satiated and purring. Junior’s stomach growls, cutting through the hazy silence, and you giggle, sweeping your hand through his unruly hair.

“Have you eaten today?”

He shakes his head wearily, nuzzling against your shoulder, “Too tired to hunt.”

You sigh, covering your burning face with your hands, “It’s almost time, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Penny shifts slightly, drawing you back into his arms, “It’s _past_ time, babydoll. Shoulda been asleep months ago.”

_They’ve stayed awake for you, for your babies, and the realisation sets your heart on fire, burning with bittersweet longing._

“I don’t want you to leave me.” You murmur softly, struggling to keep the anguished notes from your voice, “I can’t do this without you.”

Junior whines piteously, his claws extending and retracting upon your shoulders, over and over again. His distress rouses the twins, disturbing them, and they begin to cry in unison, until Penny finally slides away from you, moving into the other room to comfort them. He brings them into the bedroom, holding them both against his broad chest, and gently places them upon your lap.

You curl your arms around them, gazing down at their tiny faces, so innocent and vulnerable.

_Robert, your son, with his plump cheeks and coppery hair._

_Penelope, your first-born, her bright blue eyes twinkling with some unknown mischief._

“They need you, mama.” Penny whispers, pressing a light kiss against your temple, “You gotta look after them, {y/n}. Can you do that, for me?”

You let out a ragged sigh, closing your eyes, and you remember that night in January, so very long ago. You remember the pain and the helplessness, and you remember his words, filling you with strength when you thought that you had nothing left to give.

_You can do this._

“Yes.” You muster a smile, curling your arms around your babies, “I can do it.”

_You’ve got this, babydoll._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun little fact: I was going to write a '10 Years Later' epilogue, showing the twins as rambunctious kids, but I really couldn't find the time to do it. I'll give you some little head-canons for it here, though. 
> 
> 1\. They can still communicate with their fathers telepathically, and pass messages over to Reader, even though Penny and Junior are hibernating. The messages are sometimes a little NSFW though. Reader gets really pissed off at that and tells the clowns to fuck off back to sleep.  
> 2\. They can shape-shift. They know the rules though, so they're really careful not to do it in public, or show off in front of their friends.  
> 3\. They don't feed on fear or human flesh. They're good babies!  
> 4\. Bobby likes spending time with his grandpa, doing woodshop stuff. Little Penny is a voracious book-worm and spends a lot of time at the library, pestering Mike Hanlon. He's quite fond of her, despite everything.  
> 5\. On Halloween, when Reader asks what the kids want to dress up as, they say that they want to be clowns. And then they shape-shift into mini versions of Penny and Junior, just to freak Reader out. 
> 
> Thus concludes the 'My Funny Valentine' series. It's been a pleasure to write for you all. I'm looking forward to reading your comments! 
> 
> Much love to you all <3 xx


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